


An Infernal Contract

by moon_opals



Category: Bayonetta (Video Games), Devil May Cry
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Demon and Umbran Lore Mostly Made Up, Demons, Dissociation, F/M, Family Feels, PTSD, Reader Is Nero's Foster/Surrogate Mom, Slow Burn, umbra witches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:22:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22281796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon_opals/pseuds/moon_opals
Summary: An infernal witch raises an infernal spawn.A world where Nero is reared by an Umbran witch is a world no one is ready to live in, but you'll kill and die and eliminate to reshape the it into one he'll thrive in.(That includes duking it out with his deadbeat dad.)
Relationships: Dante (Devil May Cry) & Reader, Nero (Devil May Cry) & Reader, V (Devil May Cry) & Reader, Vergil (Devil May Cry)/Reader
Comments: 83
Kudos: 171





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Just straight up indulgent story-line I've wanted for a while now.
> 
> Also DMC x Bayonetta crossover?
> 
> DMC x Bayonetta crossover.

Adamant was not a word associated to every day thoughts of you. You were, as per peers and elders, a bratty, frivolous and abnormally astute hoodlum witch in the making. The former reasons were the cause of your sudden relocation from Vigrid. A punishment of sorts for your latest adventure that resulted in the destruction of an ancient ‘Gaze of Despair’ that housed a distant ancestor of yours. You’d never met the woman and felt no affinity to her, unlike your father who had shared stories of her past when you were a child; the damaged relic was sent to your uncle for repairs and he did, with the sole affidavit you’d be appropriately punished.

Of the requests you uncle would have been entitled to make, this was the most agreeable. Off to Fortuna you were sent, under strict guidelines. Your stay was orchestrated under the notice of no outside contact any of the other witches in your graduating class. You could not break the glamour spell cast on the island; this was a redundant clause as you hadn't discovered the way to undo the spell yet. You were to report daily to the Umbran Elder and your head instructor, a woman of frivolous character you made sure to remind them of. Growing angrier as the conditions were read aloud, you protested vehemently, stating the 'Gaze of Despair' was an accident if one perfectly timed for demonic angel removal, but the council and Elder's decision was final. Fortuna or denied your ceremonial robes. You were at their mercy.

A few spells fostered across the town weaved your local reputation. You were a lifelong resident, having lost your parents in a demon attack - not entirely off base, you’d admit. Your personality was gracious, thoughtful, prudent and unusually astute, a thread your uncle pulled at your expense. Naturally, this led to the last rule of your punishment; you couldn’t, under any circumstances, break character. You had to portray the gracious, thoughtful, prudent and unusually astute young woman the townspeople remembered you as until the assignment was completed.

“Bullshit,” you crossed your arms, glaring at your uncle. He sat on the opposite end of the car, expression passive, reading an Essence magazine. You leaned forward, strutting your chin out. “I said it’s bullshit,” you repeated harshly. But the man refused to encourage your temper tantrum. You were seventeen years old, damn it, and you were going to act like it around him. With a huff, knowing you were defeated, you leaned back into the cushion, and pouted. “It isn’t fair.”

“Karaba said the same thing when she was forced into the gauntlets,” your uncle said idly, eyeballs rotating up behind dark sunglasses. You blushed, cheeks darkening and looked out the window. “Think of it as a lesson, as a way to prevent your own ruin.”

“I just wanted to have fun.” Which was true, the incident hadn’t destroyed the accessory. The gauntlets were successfully restored, an improved version in fact, though you didn't think Karaba had managed to escape her prison, but that wasn't your fault. You uncle shook his head, nostrils twitching as air escaped out of them. 

“There’s more to life than a good time.” His black tattoos stood out on harsh skin, much like they always did. A constant source of fear and reassurance. “You’re going to learn that the hard way, baby girl.”

You already knew that. You’d always known that. It was just, frankly speaking, something you wanted to forget from time to time. But there was no part in arguing with him. He accepted and agreed to the terms The Umbran Elder established, and it was best to get it over with it. The limousine stopped in front of an old, archaic appearing building. You didn’t have to roll down the window to get a better look. You knew an orphanage when you saw one.

You gawked through the window, measuring the height and width, the architecture that seemed hideously outdated for the time period. “Am I babysitting some kid,” you mumbled dejectedly. At least, you expected you’d have to do something of importance in Fortuna - a town that had risen in recent interest at the Clan’s headquarters. Not that you were supposed to know. 

Your uncle, if he knew you knew what you weren’t supposed to know, regarded the building and inhaled. His heavy chest rose then deflated. “Your assignment hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Arrived?” Your brow pinched. “I am babysitting a kid?” 

“You’re going to protect a kid,” he corrected. “An heir of Sparda.” 

Knowing the name, you should've been impressed, but all you could think about was the inconvenience of your situation. Yes, you'd taken the relic without prior approval and subsequently damaged it as you applied its effects on fifteen demons, defeating them in less than three seconds. But that didn't justify a punishment of this severity.

"Umbran witches hate Sparda," you tapped your foot impatiently. 

"Is that what they tell you?"

You tucked your wrist under your chin. "He murdered The Progenitor Witch," you reminded him.

"I did read it in the Arcana: Volume 1." He hummed absently, reading through his magazine. "It was unfortunate, or so I read."

You huffed, annoyed. "I thought Sparda died."

"He has descendants."

Seeing you weren't going to get anywhere with him, or at least not to the point you wanted. "So," you smirked, "he got around?"

He didn't peek at you, but you could've sworn his glasses got a shade darker at the suggestion. "Something like that."

It was the end of the conversation. You didn't understand it and would never understand their insistence on this particular assignment, but the moment you readied to shoot another, more pointed questions, the orphanage front doors opened. In its center stood a medium sized, graying woman whose facial lines were stark and cruel on her flaky, pink skin. You winced, pulling back, but knew there was no way of getting out of this one. Your uncle closed his magazine, sent you an equally pointed stare, and opened the door. Your freedom had ended in an instant, and there was nowhere left for you to go. 

*****

Nero.

“You named the child Nero?” You weighed in on his white, feathery soft hair and pale, watery blue eyes; they’d grow to sharpness, if what your uncle told you was accurate. His skin was chalky but rosy pink; that fresh, new baby chalkiness you didn’t really understand. He was found by a recognized Fortuna family, and like any sensible adult, left him at the orphanage, claiming the child they discovered on the streets was special.

The Mother Superior beamed at the scrawny bundle. “Indeed, it means black in Italian,” she looked at you, then paused, having realized what she said. You nodded approvingly, accepting the role you were forced to assume.

“Indeed,” you agreed. “It is a lovely name, a strong name, for someone who appears to share so much likeness to the savior?” After updating your Fortuna history, you soon realized sending the child to its local orphanage was the worst thing any responsible adult could do. Furthermore, giving birth to a child in a place thing wasn't any better, but even more, you chewed your cheek, as human women normally didn't impregnate themselves, where was the bastard who shot the load into the woman in the first place?

“You see it too,” she said. “I knew it. It is a child blessed by Sparda himself.”

You strained to smile, unable to believe the genuine faith in her eyes. “It’s the hair,” your forced yourself to say, catching on to your uncle's true motives behind his agreeable attitude. You were left in a home of cultists; lily white, fair haired cultists. You'd scream if it didn't break the rules or disrupt the glamour. You wondered whether the glamour's spell was dependent on your willful cooperation. Better not temp fate, at least not so early in the game; you've done enough of it already. What would your elders do to you then?

*****

Nero was a horrible name. An ironic name, yes and most probable this was the Mother Superior's intention, but still, what a pretentious name to give a baby. You knew you weren't in a position to criticize. Your father named you after an opera. An opera you’d never seen. An opera you’d only seen the technicolor movie adaptation on early morning television, justifiably the most popular movie version from what you knew. Either way, your father had particular tastes and unsuccessfully tried to pass them onto you. 

Thoughts of your father guided your hand. You cupped the infant's head and neck carefully, bringing him to your eye level. He whimpered quietly and shivered in his blanket. Your stomach twinged sympathetically. Your freedom was dependent on this clingy, needy demon spawn, but knowing the truth of its blood already put it in a precarious condition. You related to that. He was going to have a rough time with his ghostly white hair and fair blue eyes. You counted your blessings with your (relatively) normal hair despite the comments made about your eyes. You've perfected the phrase, "It's contacts," and was more than happy to maintain the lie.

What about him? Little Nero? 

He’d need thick skin to survive in this cruel, unforgiving world. You knew that much. You couldn’t apprehend the horrors he’d have to battle against, though history painted a somewhat murky-clear picture. If he was truly descended from the Legendary Dark Knight, he’d have a long way to go until he found safety and contentment. It made your bottom lip tremble, as his little mouth puckered into a little smile.

“Oh.” You curled him in your arms, reluctantly. You rocked him back and forth, humming a melody you remembered from your childhood. The nursery was pleasant when the infants were asleep. On the table a closed box waited for your attention, locked tight and shut; a letter was folded on top. A graduation gift from your uncle, you suspected. On its surface, _Crimson & Clover _were written in gold, handsome script.

You'd have time to spare later. It wasn't as if you were going anywhere anytime soon, and Nero needed a nap.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I was good at naming titles.
> 
> I'd love to give each chapter an appropriate title, but I don't feel confident in chapter titles.
> 
> I've realized it is going to be awhile until Reader meets V, let alone Vergil. Take these chapters for Nero's childhood, up until the end of DMC4. We're going to get Dante and a little Lady and a little Trish, and we're going to top it with soft/fluffy/angsty Reader and Nero parent moments.

Diamond lined adamance surged throughout you the moment you processed what occurred on the playground. Fortunately, you were told after the fact, preventing any further trauma; this assignment you were coerced into accept had grown precarious as the years passed.Your flat hands ached to clenched into fists as the Mother Superior reprimanded the three boys standing in front of her desk, heads bowed in shame as her medium light tone lashed at them for their behavior. The boy on the left’s nose weeped blood and snot; the boy on the right nursed a black eye. It was the middle boy whose lightly bruised cheeks and split lip had garnered the majority of the Mother Superior’s frustration and concern; the latter you knew didn’t show well during her lecture. But you’d explain it to him later.

“I am very disappointed in you.” Her hooded head trembled with the aforementioned emotion. At this point in her lecture she’d stand and rap her cane across the floor. Having grown older in the past five years, she’d resigned herself to behind the desk scoldings, leaving the majority of disciplinary actions on your shoulders. The fact you sent the boys to her office was more of a courtesy than a mandatory protocol action. You stood along the wall, keeping a close eye on the middle child, and prepared a speech in your mind of what you were going to tell him and how you intended to tell him. 

The left and right boys mumbled their apologies. You knew the middle child would do no such thing. His lips snarled into a frustrated scowl, and his small hands, slightly bloodied, trembled at his sides. He shook his head. You stepped forward to press a gentle hand on his shoulder. His muscles tensed, and he looked above to meet your eye, the warning in the black of its pupils stayed him. His snarl softened into a disappointed frown; he turned his gaze downcast, mumbling an apology you both knew didn’t meet his heart. But as long as it satisfied The Mother Superior, you didn’t care if he swore and lied on the Savior’s statue. 

“Come now,” you guided the children out of the office. “I will send you to the infirmary.” They’d receive treatment. You didn’t believe anything was broken. The boy on the left was simply unfortunate; if there were broken ailments, there was nothing you couldn’t fix. But right as you were about to follow them down the corridor, The Mother Superior called your name, and you exhaled out of your nostrils, frustration tightening your skin. 

“I will meet you there,” you reassured them. You closed the door quietly and approached her desk with folded hands across your abdomen. It was the most passive gesture you could make in a town like this, an acceptable move that usually lowered their emotional guards. Reading the Mother Superior’s face was like reading a crudely illustrated children’s book, nothing so conflicted or complicated you couldn’t anticipate where the subject matter would lead. Even so, you preferred not having to discuss this. 

He nodded and bowed. Your dark hair was rolled and tucked under a silk scarf under your hood. “Mother,” you said in a clear tone that conveyed a question you hadn’t asked yet. “How may I be of assistance?”

Your reputation in Fortuna satisfied your superiors. Although the spell achieved its intended goal, you had cultivated other traits on your own; gentle, reserved, soft spoken and compassionate. In other words, you turned that damn spell into a little bitch, and you sorta hated yourself for it, despite all the good it did you. Such thoughts didn’t flood your mind then as you waited for the Mother Superior to deliberate. Her wrinkled, age spotted skin glistened in front of a wide paned, opened window. 

“Five years have passed,” she said slowly, a gentle snarl of phlegm in her throat rattled the sentence, “since you started your work at the orphanage.” She measured you quietly, in an inscrutable way that would’ve made a lesser, weaker woman nervous. You were accustomed to such measurements; the scrutiny was the sort you were raised upon, for as long as your memories allowed. “You have proven yourself a worthy and admirable sister, caregiver and worshipper.”

You did not purse your lips together. Five years had passed since the day you destroyed an ancient family heirloom and was subsequently sent to a cultist island to rear an infamous demon knight’s descendant. You didn’t question whether the boy was the real deal or not; you simply knew and accepted this child carried Sparda’s blood. As you said, the hair and eyes were a dead give away, but most importantly, an innate sensation in your soul spoke out to this blood. You couldn’t explain how this was possible, and you weren’t ready to dwell in the secrets of your own lineage. It was easier for everyone to accept it.

“I am grateful for your consideration.” You raised your head and smiled demurely. “I must thank the Savior for permitting me the opportunity to help others in any way I can.” It was more than you ever wanted, none of which you ever wanted, and five years later, you understood perfectly well why Uncle Rodin and The Umbran Elder shipped you off to this remote, isolated island trapped in its own lies and mythologies. “I am humbled by your notice,” you continued, “and I am happy in the position He has sent me.”

What a smart, calculated move. You couldn’t outwardly express your displeasure with occupying her chair when she inevitably retired or died, whichever one came first, but at the same time, denying her position held substantial influence in the city. What you didn’t know was the reach of this influence. You were instructed to protect the boy. Said instructions didn’t include bedtime stories and nursery rhymes, preparing nutritious meals, kissing scraps and booboos or training him in the ways of the warrior. The objective was to ensure he didn’t die before he came of age. From what you were able to gather during brief conversations with Uncle Rodin, two Sparda carriers went missing fourteen years ago. Nero was their attempt at rectifying their mistake.

“He sent you at a most precarious time, indeed,” the Mother Superior added. Her teeth had yellowed and wiggled in her gums. But you paid no heed to this. She rested her palms on her desk, gripping the edges as she leaned forward. “Your organizational and management skills have saved this orphanage more times than I can count, as the rise of demon casualties have risen in recent years.” 

You remained quiet. Having the Mother Superior admit your worth beyond your gracious disposition was more than you were prepared for. You were careful not to say more than what was necessary, expecting the inevitable but curious at how she was about to go about it. But then, she surprised you. She slumped back in her chair and sighed weakly; glassy eyes scanned over her tidy, meticulous cleansed desk. 

“I do not like disciplining the children.” 

“It is in their best interests to know there are consequences to their actions.” You cringed at the sound of the sentence, wondering what your Elder would have thought about this confession. “Of course, there is a time and a place to indulge in physical play.”

The Mother Superior snorted. “Physical play,” her throat rattled. “The two boys stated Nero assaulted them for no reason, a madman in a child’s body, or so they say.”

An eye roll was an indulgent gesture you didn’t succumb to in the woman’s presence. “Yes,” you replied warily. “Children’s imaginations are colorful.”

“Colorful when it pertains to other, normal child,” she corrected tiredly, “not to a descendant of Sparda.” At least, they knew the truth when they saw it, but this didn’t mean good things for the boy. You inched further to the truth, more curious at what unfolded in your absence, though you had a suspicion or two.

“What happened, Mother Superior,” you stepped forward. “Nero is not one to attack unless provoked.”

“Tis true.”

“Did the boys say anything?”

“Nero didn’t,” she replied. “The blooded and black eyed one said they were playing when Nero suddenly got out of control.”

You contemplated what she said. “Again, that does not sound like Nero,” you insisted cautiously. “I am not saying the boys are lying, but I do believe something has not been confessed.” It was the only explanation you’d accept under the circumstances. Someone was leaving a pertinent detail out. You watched the wheels turn in the Mother Superior’s face, and she expelled a groan, grumbling softly about children and their mischievous manners. Obviously, this under current maneuver transferred authority to you, or rather, the resolve was determined to lie on your shoulders.

“They are to be appropriately punished,” the Mother Superior informed you. “I don’t want them outside for the rest of the day. They shall sit in silence in the classroom, penance for their misdeeds.”

“Yes, Mother.”

Of course, she added cleaning the classroom on their knees, to reinforce the error of their ways, but you weren’t inclined to enforce such an addition. You walked to the infirmary where you found the two boys sitting with a sister administering first aid. You knew what to do with children like them; you opened with a smile, a painfully forced smile they could tell was seasoned with slight irritation. You sat across from them, stare bouncing off one child to the other, and asked, in a deceptively soft voice. 

“What happened?”

They knew not to lie, and they knew not to withhold the truth. Neither was acceptable and would be tolerated, though their combined imaginations couldn’t fathom what she could or would do to them if they were attempt to circumvent the truth. So they sang. She listened carefully, from beginning to end, and she didn’t raise her voice or eyebrow or anything to indicate her disappointment in them. They weren’t bad children by any means, but children held the same potential for cruelty. When they finished at last, panting as they stared at their feet, cheeks flushed as if they’d run a full mile marathon, she clasped her hands together.

“How do you feel,” she asked.”

They looked at each other. “Bad,” they mumbled.

You hummed thoughtfully. “And what do you think Nero feels?”

They flinched at that. “Worse,” admitted, albeit reluctantly.

Good. Empathy was the key.

\--

You knew where to find Nero. You didn’t have to search the infirmary or the children’s quarters or the library. A motherly intuition told you where you’d find the wayward child, and you weren’t surprised when you did. On the far outskirts of the playground was a pond; a small pond where the children played near. Children’s interests were fickle, and no one paid attention to the habitual ducks and fishes enclosed inside. Except for him, sitting on the stone bench under the sycamore, alone. He seemed so much smaller, so much fragile than he was, and you approached softly, heels clicking on the soft rubble underneath you.

You waited for him to say something. When he didn’t, you took it upon yourself to sit beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. He sniffled. Gently, you turned him around towards you. He sniffled some more. You wrapped your arms around him, smothering him in your warmth as he sobbed. He trembled and quaked, releasing anger and frustration and loneliness; emotions you were well acquainted with. It wasn’t about you. It wasn’t about your feelings. You held him still, propping him on your lap as your rocked him gently, rubbing circles on his back until he calmed.

He buried his face into your neck. “I wish I could say it’ll get easier,” you heard yourself speak. You were surprised at the thickness in your voice. “I want to say it’ll get easier, the cruelty,” you swallowed. “But sometimes, it gets worse, and the best you can do is push back when shoved.” You leaned back and cupped one of his tear stained cheeks. Soon, your touch slid to his hand where yours closed around his warm, smaller one. You brought it to your lips and kissed away the bruises. “Your hands, these hands are strong, my little hunter,” you smiled, “and they will protect you, if you let them.”

He whimpered, eyes watering again. “They said...they said my mother was a prostitute.” A prostitute? You wondered if any of them knew what a prostitute was. Your nostrils flared angrily, but now wasn’t the time to display your anger. Nero certainly didn’t know what a prostitute was but was able to infer it wasn’t anything good.

“My mother was a demon,” you said, teasingly.

“A demon?”

“Mmhmm.” You shifted him on your lap and crossed your legs. “I don’t think anyone knew,” you reminisced, tone light, “but she’s the reason for my eyes and my skin.” Your eyes weren’t a problem, not in actuality, but the skin, the skin was what frightened so many or made them double back at you, hackles rising in suspcion. He didn’t need to know that either. What good would it do?

“Like midnight,” Nero brightened. He touched your cheek. “Like midnight,” he repeated.

You couldn’t help it. You laughed. “A unique description,” you chuckled, pressing your nose to his, “but a lovely one. Only one other person has ever described me as such.”

Nero pouted, thoughtful. “So...they were mean to you too?”

“Yes.”

“And it doesn’t get better?”

You closed your eyes. “My father, you see, was a bookstore owner,” you pressed him close, resting your cheek on his soft head. “He told me you can soften the pain by hardening your skin, by not letting their words get to you.”

“Did it work?”

You shrugged. “Mostly, but my uncle taught me another thing.”

“What?” He looked up at you with too bright, too clear blue eyes that made your heart ache. “What did he tell you?”

You clasped his hand and smiled. “Your fists can protect,” you speak softly, “your fists can defend. With the power in your heart heart and mind, you can break walls into dust. Do not let them break you.”

He tilted his head, confusion worn in the way only a child could wear it. You chuckled, pressing him tightly, and rocked back on the bench. He didn’t have to speak his question for you to know what it was. Your heels planted on the ground firmly, and you whipped him to you, suddenly firm. The softness about your expression eroded, leaving a stone like texture he wasn’t able to comprehend. Your grip around him was absolute, but he wasn’t afraid. He could never be afraid of you - not that you wanted him to be.

“You want me to fight.”

“I want you to fight and defend,” you clarified, clasping his hands. “Not everyone will love you, but you can make them respect you. They won’t bother you again when they’ve acknowledged your strength, do you understand?”

“I think so.” His bottom lip trembled. “But how,” every word shook out of his mouth, “how am I gonna learn?”

“Oh, my darling,” you smooth his hair out of his face. A haircut was foretold in his future. “I will show you,” you kissed his forehead, beaming with pride as understanding forced his teary eyed redness to vacate. You suspected this was included in The Elder’s instructions when you were told to protect the child. What good is guarding if the child cannot protect himself when you’re not around? The escalating attacks must have caught their notice at this point, but as his excitement grew, your thoughts strayed from political complications. All you could think of was the potential resting in him, waiting for cultivation and your determination to ensure he achieved it.

His first lesson started that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having not used "He's my baby" in any capacity is extremely difficult for me as a writer. Adopted/found family stories are lovely, and it's a line I've wanted to use since the idea struck me. Nero is Reader's baby, but unfortunately, babies grow up. Babies tend to find out the truth about their parents, discovering they're people like them.
> 
> A little bit into Reader's backstory. We'll learn more as we go. Hopefully. That is the plan.
> 
> I'm extremely grateful for the response and am hungry for continued validation/feedback.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've started reading Visions of V. It's much better than I thought it'd be. It provides a lot of context and additional information I had questioned during the game but wasn't sure if it'd get confirmed. I'm relieved some of my hunches were confirmed. A little forewarning that this chapter contains hints and clues towards what we'll get into down the line, but I wanted to sprinkle some of that before beefing up the meat.
> 
> For obvious reasons, I have plans to up the rating for events that will...progress in future chapters. 
> 
> I really want to thank everyone. I didn't expect this response, and I'm extremely grateful for it.

Upon your arrival, the thought to consider the perks of your Fortuna relocation had completely slipped past you. Any outraged seventeen year old wouldn’t have been keen on looking for the bright side of an unfair removal. Sen on the even you’d acquired your hard earned robes, following the ritual chanting of the sacred vows, you didn’t believe there was a bright side.

Fate denied you a choice. A month and a half had passed before your Umbran requirements pricked at your memory, let alone affected your mission beyond the guidelines. Unsurprisingly, you were feeding Nero at the time when one of the sisters mentioned a new moon.

A new moon. A cold wash fell down on your head the moment you realized what this entailed. You properly burped and rocked the infant to sleep, quickly hurrying to find any sign of posting, confused when you sensed there was none.

It didn’t take long for someone to get into contact with you. The Umbran Elder’s voice resonated around you, gentle but commanding, as she reported a witch in your circumstances was not mandated to participate in Umbran traditions, though you were strongly encouraged to do so. As an apprentice, the rituals gnawed at your patience, but distance drew upon your heart’s fondness. You compromised your schedule to include an hour of ritual, worked around your meetings, Nero’s training, and nightly patrols. 

You didn’t mention any of this to Nero, but the boy had shown no interest in where you had acquired your sword and gun skills. Which brought you to your current situation. You sat comfortably behind a wide, sycamore desk; you clasped a medium sized redwood box in your hands, vision sparkling as you were tempted to open it. 

And you did. Patience was never a strong suit of yours. “It is gorgeous,” you murmured. “I can’t thank you enough, Uncle Rodin.” His name toppled off your lips like a child’s, the same excitement you reserved for his presence. Your age and frustrations with his lack of support were irrelevant in light of the gift laid in front of you. Its base was a Smith and Wesson Model 500, double-action, almost identical to your Crimson & Clover, except for the differing colorw. This model retained its steel sheen and brown handle, unlike your appropriately colored crimson and clover green, but a faint, azure glow roamed on its metal sheen.

“Blue Rose,” Uncle Rodin named. “Damn fuckers took me a little longer than usual. Put up an unusual fight.” 

He baited for your inquiry to what went into making this beautiful instrument of death and destruction, especially one done in a relatively short time frame. An ego boost, naturally, but your gratitude prevented any obstruction. You took the bait like a starving fish. “I imagine the demoness was mad as hell,” you slid a finger across its body, shivers pricking goosebumps on your skin. You couldn’t imagine what power this baby held, but it wasn’t for you to find out. 

Your uncle chuckled darkly. “Actually, there wasn’t much work to it,” there was a cheeky note in his tone, a special touch he reserved for exceptional circumstances. “I crossed the Archeron for her.”

“Archeron?” Your brow pinched curiously, and you broke your attention to study your uncle’s features. He appeared the same, more or less, but his chest rose heavily, as if trying to compensate for extraneous activity. “The Archeron, the river of pain,” you murmured aloud, twisting your head to send him a very concerned look. “It is her domain, isn’t it,” you questioned. “You’re telling me you went into her territory and retrieved a demoness from her land?”

His satisfaction rippled along the walls. He corrected his sunglasses, ready to dance off his face. “She permitted it,” he answered coolly. “She said she’d wanted to gift the boy something special for a long time.”

“She wanted to send him a gift?”

He shrugged, nonchalant. “I don’t know what’s going on in her head. She wanted to give him a gift. You wanted to give him a gift. I helped.” At the end of the line a smirk greeted you.

You knew your uncle wouldn’t confide his secrets, and the man possessed an infinite barrel of them. You let the matter rest, closing the box on your desk as the footsteps approached. You recognized the footsteps, hard putting and fast working. You nodded at your uncle and wasn’t surprised when the door swung open, revealing the aforementioned boy you had discussed. 

“Mother.” He burst out of the door, breathless. “Mother, I’ve gotta tell -,” he stopped short, spotting your uncle seated in one of the chairs. His excitement instantly waned. He crossed the threshold quietly, cautious around the unfamiliar face, but you were already on the move. You pushed back in the chair and stood, clasping the box as you approached him. A smile was on your face, an equally excited one.

“Happy birthday.” You offered the box, “My little devil hunter.”

“Mom,” he stressed, then remembered your guest. He straightened his back, coughing lightly as if to clear his throat rather than covering his embarrassment. “I mean, Mother, come on.”

You pouted, confused. “It isn’t like I’m doing this in front of Kyrie.”

“Mother.”

You rolled your eyes. Childhood transcended into adolescence far too quickly, and now, you were stuck with an awkward, hormone addled teenager. “My guest was just leaving,” you motioned to the door. Uncle Rodin didn’t complain, waving his goodbye. He nodded at Nero.

“Happy birthday, kid.”

“Who are you?”

Uncle Rodin didn’t wait long enough to answer. 

With him gone, you guided Nero to a chair. You could sense he wanted to tell you something important, extremely important, meaning your gift had to wait. You didn’t mind. He was turning sixteen. Seventeen was an important year in most lives. It was for you. It was the year you earned your final robe and spoke the sacred Umbran vows; all you needed was the receive your robes to cement your place in the clan. You still recalled the pride you had, the slight nod on your instructor’s face and the sharp glare in the Elder’s. You dismissed the memory and sat in the nearest chair beside him, waiting with contagious excitement. You often tried to suppress that side of you, the giddy side so happy to see him, and you realized he’d done the same, doing his best to remain aloof in your presence, though he usually broke down in private.

“So,” you pressed gently. “What is it?”

Anticipation and excitement coiled around him like an anaconda smothering its victim. He opened his mouth, closed it solemnly and wondered how he’d say it. You could tell he knew what he was going to say but couldn’t estimate your response. You placed the box back on the desk and squared him right in the eye. Your undivided attention was necessary in these situations. “Nero,” you said softly, tilting your head downward in that familiar way he knew all too well. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

“I joined the Order.”

You didn’t pause. You stopped. A record scratched to an undignified stop in your brain, and you knew he knew it stopped in your brain. You tried, unsuccessfully, to contain your emotions, to bottle your emotions and keep your facial muscles contract. But you knew he knew it was impossible. Your right eye twitched, and your high cheekbones flexed as your jaw worked at awkward angles. 

“You’re mad.”

“I am mad,” your fingertips brushed along your temple. “I am proud, but I am mad.” It wasn’t a question of pride. You were proud of him. He’d worked so hard for so long. It was only a matter of time until he achieved his objective, or achieved a path that could allow him to continue forward on that path. But nonetheless, an ulcer pulsated in your stomach, and you knew he wasn’t the source of it. You turned around in the chair, twisting your hands together, chewing your cheek.

“Mom?” He didn’t move, weighing on your fractured response. “Mom, you know this is what I’ve wanted to do. It’s the only way I can go about doing what I want to do.”

“I know,” you swallowed. “I know,” you repeated, facing him. “And I am so proud of you. I knew you’d always achieve this,” but the fear was there - that primal fear, knowing only horror would blossom from this tree. “Nero,” you said slowly, “you know how I feel about the Order of the Sword.”

He nodded, understanding this part. “I know,” he said. “No demon should be worshiped as a god.”

“No demon like Sparda,” you corrected, quietly. You knew your situation looked ridiculous to him. You were a non-believer running an Order funded orphanage. It was ridiculous, and you hated the position you were semi-forced into. But it was between staying in Fortuna or leaving Nero alone, undefended. “I don’t trust the Order,” you inhaled, counting your breaths. “A darkness surrounds the organization, and they are not to be trusted.” 

You’d done your own work outside his training. You fought demon after demon, and none of it made sense. It escalated following the deaths of Credo and Kyrie’s parents, you soon realized. You wondered whether Nero had made the connection yet and hoped he hadn’t. He was sensitive, emotional, and prioritized Kyrie’s safety above most things; you understood and accepted his outward affection, though he believed it well hidden. You were surprised at your approval of this, but it was hard not to approve. Kyrie was a smart, compassionate young woman and capable of tempering Nero’s more spearheaded tendencies. Simultaneously, while you cherished the seeds of first love, it concerned you. Love was an instrument of detestable power, often confused as a weakness, and enemies were known to prey on perceived vulnerabilities. 

His voice cut through your thoughts. “I’m not joining them because I believe in that shit,” he proclaimed in a cocky, too cool to admit his actual reasons way. You weren’t going to point it out to him.

“Good.” You smirked. “I’ve taught you better to believe in it.” You’d taught him more than that and had worried the time spent on the training grounds with Credo would dilute your teachings, turn him away from the truth. “Sparda may have preserved humanity, but it was not out of the kindness of his heart,” you waved dismissively. “He craved power just as much as the demon king he turned against.”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I know, Mom. I know.” He leaned towards you and gave you that pleading, puppy dog look he used to boast when he was seven. You groaned internally. He knew you couldn’t resist. You didn’t resist it when he was seven. You wasn’t going to resist at sixteen. Your stomach lurched forward, and you sighed, shaking your head at the frustration of it all. 

“Alright,” you conceded. You returned the lean and pinched his right cheek, tugging gently. “I will support you in any endeavor you choose, but be careful, I mean it. Remember to keep a critical eye.” He smiled back at you, that silly boyish grin that always made your heart skip a beat. You caressed the same spot of his cheek with the back of your hand, wondering where the years went until you noticed something odd. His smile didn’t crack or soften as it eased into another shape. It had frozen on his skin. 

You leaned back and found the clock on your wall. The hands of time had also frozen, stopped in mid movement to the next minute. Along the walls violet waves rippled around you, and you inhaled, sharply, comprehension tingling at the forefront of your mind. Only one thing could explain this. You touched your chest where an emblem resonated under your nun habit. Its warmth radiated throughout your nervous system; every neuron vibrated excitedly at this newfound energy, regularly stored away for special occasions. You reached under your habit and procured the emblem, tapping the side with your thumb to pop open its top. A watch. It’s emerald center was finely threaded under vermillion rubies. You smirked, raising your head to meet the woman sitting at your desk.

“Elder,” you greeted, tapping the watch shut. You slipped it back under your habit and smiled thinly, more annoyed than surprised. You couldn’t be intimidated right now. Your conversation’s revelations had unsettled you more than you knew at the time and was able to process. Having the Elder present was a minor inconvenience, but you didn’t need her to know that. You turned accordingly, resting your hands on your lap, and regarded her with the respect she was entitled to. “You didn’t make an appointment.”

She was a pale faced, weathered woman. Her weathering didn’t show in the typical way. There were no wrinkles around her mouth or crow’s feet perched near her eyes. Age hadn’t found her yet, though she had aged in other ways by the looks in her eyes. Like a storm brewing, always, or a storm distant enough where just the clouds circulated. You weren’t going to question the seemingly permanent storm in her stare; that wasn’t the reason for her unwarranted appearance. You clicked your tongue and waited for her to explain yourself.

She didn’t. Instead, she grazed onto Nero’s frozen form. “He’s grown,” she observed quietly. “I am impressed. You didn’t send your biweekly report, my child.” A soft reprimand was still a reprimand. You didn’t fall prey to it this time. You could say you’d forgotten under duress of meetings and volunteer work. Admittedly, you didn’t have the energy to craft such a flimsy excuse. So you leaned back in the chair and stretched your legs out. 

“I wanted to talk to you in person.” 

A finely plucked, blonde brow arched curiously. “There are numerous ways in which you could have contacted me, directly, my child,” she curled her firsts under her chin. “Why must you always be so difficult?”

A simple, reasonable question. You could’ve easily used a mirror or a water puddle to reach her or any of her assistants, but those methods, while prudent, didn’t meet your expectations. “I believe the matter we are discussing is far too delicate to get lost in transition,” you gripped the arms of the chair and squared your shoulders. “And you know that.”

“I do,” she admitted.”

“I cannot say for sure, but I believe the Order is up to...abnormal experiments.” You didn’t waste time with pleasantries and descriptive details. Your nightly patrols revealed interesting facts about the demons and the guards responsible for protecting the citizens. “I believe they are transforming civilians into demons, on the belief they’re ascending,” you concluded.

“And your proof?”

You scoffed but was prepared. You stood up and stalked to the other side of your office. Gripping the file cabinet handle, you pulled the entire thing out and retrieved a box tucked firmly on the far back of the end. “Aside from their peculiar interest in devil arms,” a fact that stood out amongst the rest upon discovery, “I am led to believe they have taken to darker arts to achieve their goals.” You set the box in front of the Elder, and she flickered down at it, eyes narrowed into fine, milky green blues. 

The enchantments on the box were strong enough to lock out all demons and humans, Nero included. The Umbran Elder had no trouble unlocking the heart shaped lock on the front. She opened the box and held her breath, head rolling back as she suppressed the reveal. It was the way air escaped her nose and how her pursed lips trembled that expressed her tender horror.

“It is as we suspected.”

“It is.”

She closed the box. “What is their goal,” she murmured, thoughtfully. “What could they possibly want with this power?”

“Only The Progenitor would know,” your replied dryly. It didn’t matter what they wanted exactly, since whatever their objectives were it didn’t forbade kindly for humanity. “Elder, what do you want me to do?”

“I want you to continue on with your mission.”

You inhaled sharply. “About a minute, probably less, before you arrived, Nero told me he joined the order.”

“I see.” Disgust carried on her brow. A little disappointment was there too, but there was nothing for them to do about it right now. His decision was made, and you weren’t going to argue this with her or anyone else. “You want to protect the boy,” she surmised. “Is that it?”

“It’s why I was sent here,” you reminded her.

“Yes, the reason you were sent here,” she repeated slowly, and you watched the machinations of her mind begin to rotate. But in which direction, you couldn’t possibly know. “You were sent to teach you humility and consideration, both you’ve seemed to grasp extremely well. Yet, I fear,” she rested a hand on the smooth box where Blue Rose lay, “you’ve forgotten your purpose, your Umbran purpose, my child.”

An inevitable course, you anticipated. Your assignment was, in theory, a simple one. Keep the boy out of harm’s way, rear him to his potential until he came of age. Was seventeen the magic number? You preferred ignorance on the subject. 

Your fists clenched. Defiance was what she needed to understand and accept. Umbran purpose was preached regularly during your apprenticeship; the very concept was weaved into your hair, stitched and tangled for your comprehension. At the end of the day, at the end of every day, your Umbran purpose remained an astray glimmer in your life, for you’d found something greater beyond some invisible, intangible ideal. 

“I am not leaving him,” you said. “I want you to understand that. I will uphold the Umbran way, and it is to enlighten mankind’s path, to protect the innocent.” You looked towards Nero, frozen in the chair. “He is innocent,” you nodded. “I am going to protect him, as are the people in this city, please, give me leave to do that beyond these walls.” You spread your arms and felt the glare darken your amethyst gaze. 

The Elder plucked your resolve right out of your eyes and dissected it. She tossed it in her palm, studying its intricate details as if it was a true gem, no matter how paltry it may have been to her. “He is not yours,” she said finally, gaze admonishing you.You were in your mid-thirties, a full witch - a witch that had protected and defended the people from demon attacks, albeit undercover. You glared back. 

“I do not believe that needs reminding.” You raised your hand sharply and showed her the stark color of your skin. “Fortuna has taken to often addressing the fact that a woman of my complexion has successfully managed an Order sponsored orphanage. None of the children, in truth, are mine.” 

At that, at least, The Elder stumbled briefly. She paused, looking back to the bejeweled box where Blue Rose rested. “I overstepped,” she said slowly. “But my statement is no less true. You will have to return to Vigrid one day.”

You rolled your eyes. “I am considering what will happen,” you whispered thickly. “When the time comes for me to depart, I doubt I’ll spend the rest of my days in Vigrid, Fortuna’s sister city in all but name.” As you were on a roll, it’d be a shame to stop right there. “You may deny permission. Your approval is a courtesy, not a requirement.”

“You should be wary of how you speak to me, child.”

Your glare narrowed. "And you should be wary of how you speak to me, Elder Lilith," your voice's timbre split in half.

Her brow did not rise in alarm or surprise, but you noticed a sharp sheen flowing across her glasses. “I see,” she said, leaning back in the chair. “A devil hunter has made rounds in Fortuna,” she said slowly. “I believe you are familiar with her.” Acquiescing to your will was no easy task, and you wondered how much she was willing to swallow. 

But first, you focused on the new subject. “You mean Lady,” crossing your arms, your hip leaned on the side of the desk. “The Order has encroached on her territory. She’s an associate of Dante’s.”

“So, you have your little butterflies as well?”

“Dragonflies,” you corrected.

“I see,” she smiled thinly. “I report you to her. Seek Lady out. I’m sure you can get some information out of her, but I suspect you already have,” her pointed stare said more than needed saying aloud. “You have my blessing. If this Order is...manufacturing artificial demons using human subjects, then we must prepare for calamity. I want to know what monstrosity they’ve used to achieve these aspirations.” Her fists clenched where garnet energy resonated around them. You tried not to wince.

“Yes, my elder,” you bowed. 

Pacified, Elder Lilith vanished. Time resumed.

It wasn’t instantaneous. Physics needed a moment to restart, and gently, it did. Returning to your chair, you grabbed the box. A reflection of the spell’s incantation shined over Nero’s face, and he blinked, lips moving to complete a sentence he hadn’t realized he was in the middle of speaking. Faster than him, you offered the box a second time. 

“Happy birthday, Nero.”

He paused, a little confused, but sighed, with a small smile on his face. Gingerly, he took the box into his hands.

“Thanks, Mom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umbran witches have a semi-valid reason to not like Sparda. In Bayonetta, Eva is named dropped. She made a pact with a 'Legendary Dark Knight.' We don't need Kamiya to spell it out to us. We know his name. ;D
> 
> Eva was a witch. You can't tell me otherwise. Okay, you can tell me otherwise since Itsuno may not consider Eva a witch in his storyline, but Kamiya's? A witch, totally a witch.
> 
> As always, thank you for the feedback! I'm hungry for it.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to address the elephant in the room. I didn't respond correctly to a comment. I'm accepting of criticism on most days. My only explanation is the perceived implication I didn't know the general backstory. For me, it was obvious Reader's ignorance was connected to what she was taught by the Umbra witches; that she was given a part of the story and would come up later as a plot point. I want her to be ignorant. My initial reply was not productive and should've been more understanding. 
> 
> I should've responded with, "I'm aware it doesn't make sense. I'm aware Reader is ignorant. Vergil didn't know he needed Lady's blood to undo the seal dividing the human world and The Underworld. He was ignorant." We don't know why Vergil didn't know this. Was it impatience? Did he not pay attention to the story? Or was this part of the legend not readily accessible? Was this information widely known or not? Did Eva know?
> 
> Who tells the story?
> 
> That's how I should've responded rather than going on the defense. It isn't that I don't know the general backstory. I know Sparda did a good thing for humanity, so why would the Umbra witches not like him? That's something that will be revealed down the line, if you choose to continue reading.
> 
> For that, I apologize for my approach in my response. I'm sorry. I messed up.
> 
> However, death threats will not be tolerated, and the Disney corporation is the devil. I'm not gonna deny that.

“I don’t understand.”

Credo stiffened. “Mother Superior, Nero is under our most efficient physicians.”

“I understand that,” you gestured. “What I do not understand is my denial of entry. I am not permitted to see my ward?”

The muscles under his cheekbones flexed in irritation. “He is a ward of Fortuna, under your supervision,” he corrected stonily. Seeing that did not phase you, he amended quietly. “I understand your concern for him,” he sighed. “We’re doing all that we can.”

Annoyed, you blew him off and side stepped him with cool ease. Surprised, he reached out to grab your arm, and you repeated the motion, slowing down enough to feign innocence. Your stride refused to pause, and your hips swayed at every step. Not permitted? To see Nero? Laughable. He shouted after you, pursuing you down the corridor, and you paid him no mind. His orders may have desired a certain discrepancy surrounding the events of this particular mission. Irrelevant to your purposes. Credo’s heels bounded after you, urgency increasing their volume. Ahead two guards stood in front of a sealed door. You squinted behind your glasses and licked your upper teeth behind closed lips. 

It surprised you like a rock to a window when they spread their legs in a manner to shield the door out of view. You stopped, blood levels raised, you breathed out of your nose. “I see,” you said aloud. “It appears something of interest has transpired.” You stopped, waiting for Credo to close the gap between you. A gloved hand rested on his shoulder, and you neither flinched or curled away in annoyance. He did not pant or grunt, completely silent as his shadow encased yours. Your eyes fell to his right, and you hummed. 

“He is resting,” he said frostily. 

“I see,” you smiled. You turned at last. “I see. I understand, forgive me, General. I am...worried for the child. Kyrie has recovered. She is despondent, you see, and I must have projected our fears onto my actions.”

Immediately, a soft glaze lessened the severity in his face. “Kyrie has inquired about his health,” he said sympathetically. “Please, you must let him rest.”

You frowned, a sensible response and nodded. “Of course, Supreme General,” you bowed, clutching your hand above your chest. “You will inform me if anything changes?”

“Yes, Mother Superior. You have my word.”

“Your word?” You smirked wryly. “I know your word is as good as your sword skills,” you spun around without looking back. “I shall come tomorrow to see how he has progressed.” Credo did not reply but did not dismiss the option either. You paused for a moment to weigh the stiff silence projected onto your back but said nothing except for a quiet thank you to soften the blow of your proclamation. 

\--

“I am not being over protective.” You clutched the phone to your ear, annoyed. “I am concerned, and that is a perfectly reasonable emotion to feel under my circumstances.” You scaled up the side of the wall. You knew his room was on the top floor and the furthest room down the hall. Waves of violet and indigo surrounded you. The buzzing in your ear clicked their tongues and sighed sympathetically; a gesture they knew would further your irritation. You knew the sounds for what they were, patronizing clicks to calm your festering ire. 

“I do not care what the Umbran Elder will think,” you replied harshly, spying the window ahead. “And if we are to base my actions on current and past offenses, you are in no room to talk.” It was more than enough you’d have to report this to event to the elder, and the last thing you wanted was a team of Umbran witches to alleviate the town of this demonic plague they’re set on studying. “No, I am suggesting rather than telling me what I should do, what would you have done in my place?” You heard the withdrawal in their voice as they contemplated their options, suggesting maybe they wouldn’t have -

You opened the window and slipped in silently. Disgust rolled on your face, and your lips curl in a frown, aghast at the images that joined your imagination. “Oh, please,” you sighed, exasperated. “I didn’t mean that. Come on, you know that method is an acceptable method of contraceptive.” You looked around the room, noting its pleasant if minimalistic design. Order Hospitals were not known for their homey decorations. You leaned to the painted walls, grazing a critical line over the beige rouge and stuck out your tongue. “Horrible,” you turned away, dismissive. “I could have called our interior designers for all this, or have done it myself.” But then you turned, and gasped.

Nero.

If it hadn’t occurred to you that this room was a single, when the majority of the hospital rooms were doubles, you did then. “I’ll call you back,” you said into the phone. The voices murmured their assent. “Wait,” you murmured. “You want me to say what?” You sighed. “Oh, alright. I love you too, Mummy and Father.” You clicked the phone off, returning it to your pocket. Dragging a chair to his bedside, you stood above him, studying his current features. What had changed? His face appeared as smooth and unblemished as ever. His hair was shorter than you last remembered; fortunately, the barber maneuvered successfully around his unique corners and angles. It’d taken you some attempts, most of them rewinded for your and his benefit.

His breathing was even. You didn’t see any external wounds. Perhaps, the wounds he sustained were internal. “I don’t sense or see any,” you murmured to yourself, gripping the bed sheet that covered him. “I do sense something.” Your brow knitted concernedly, grasping at what resonated off his body. You pulled a fraction and saw it, just the upper arm, and felt your stomach twist in multiple knots with no way of untangling them. “What in The Progenitor’s Name,” you gasped. A pale blue aura wound itself around the arm and sprouted at you, severing your witch time. A ripple of blue energy rippled through your violet and indigo, and you watched, interested, as the time of flow resumed against your will. Caught in your transfixion, you didn’t hear or feel him stir beneath you.

“Mom?” He rolled to the left, eyes cracking open. “Mom, is that you?”

Applying a quick silencing spell reassured you wouldn’t receive any unwanted visitors. It was done discreetly enough not to alert Nero’s attention, but you suspected he was too spent to notice it. “Nero, my little one,” you leaned forward, “I’m right here.”

“H-how,” he cracked.

“It doesn’t matter,” you pressed. “How are you feeling? Are you well?”

He twisted at you, unsure whether you were real or a hallucination. He tried to raise his head, gritting his teeth with strain. “I feel..,” he fell back on the pillow. “Like a fucking train hit me.”

“Hm,” you hummed. “I’d say you had, considering what happened.” You watched him like a hawk as he shifted on the bed. He settled at the angle he awoke in. 

He smacked his mouth and frowned at the taste of bitter sleep on his tongue. “My...arm,” he stirred weakly. “It, what happened to me?”

You had no answer for him. The bed sheet was nestled under his chin but had fallen when the energy disrupted your initial spell. In the early evening light, you could see clearly. Human flesh had morphed into something else. You could not explain this knew appendage ribboned in vibrant reds and blues. Sinewy muscles and splits protruded off the muscle, and the hardest part, you suspected, were the claws. Claws were the most appropriate description you could think of.

“A demon,” he mumbled, dejectedly. He hid the arm under the sheet and used the remaining visages of his strength to scoot away. “Leave me,” he tried to hiss, but his bluster folded almost immediately.

“Nero.” You could not mistaken what his silence meant. “Little one,” you reached for his hand. He pulled back instinctively. “This changes very little.”

“Very little,” he spat. “Look at me. What will Credo think or Kyrie.” Your heart sighed at the way he said her name. “What will she say when she sees me like this?”

You straightened. “Kyrie is a keen girl,” you tapped your chin. “She’d likelier worry for the effects of the arm rather than its appearance.”

He glared at you. “I doubt that,” he replied. Gaining enough strength, he pressed his back on the bed’s head and propped his other arm on his knee. “She can’t...I don’t want her to suffer because of me.”

“Oh?” You smiled cheekily, rising off the chair. You sat on the edge of the bed, right below where his arm lied under the sheet. Its outline was well defined. “I thought I taught you better than that, little hunter.”

He weighed you. “What?”

“I mean,” you continued, dismissively. “A woman’s word is only as good as her actions, and Kyrie is not the type to appreciate having decisions made for her.” You drew circles above the outline, thoughtful. “If you doubt she’d not want to be around you, if you doubt her love -,”

“I never said anything about that,” he interjected hastily.

Your stare silenced him.

He closed his mouth, petulant.

With a sigh, you continued. “As I was saying,” you folded your hand around the outline and smiled softly, “your doubt for her love is one affront she will not accept. How rude is it when a man determines he knows a woman’s feelings without asking her.” Your smile prodded, patient to see which conclusion he’d come to.

You watched his mouth quake. “What can she see in me,” he trembled. His shoulders shook. He looked down at the aforementioned hand. You could not fathom what demonic entity lurked in the Mitis Forest, but you had a hunch, a small hunch as to what caused this manifestation of his powers. Your theories in their raw form would do no good to you, not in this situation. You dragged them back and restitched them.

“Oh, little one,” you scooted closer to him. You dropped a hand on his shoulder, quietly marveling at its cool heat. “She will see you as her savior,” you smiled. “The one who put everything on the line for her.” Gently, you guided him towards you, but you did not have to put much effort in it. Nero fell in your arms, collapsed. 

His first sob broke your heart. It was different, somehow, from the cries of infancy and the tears of younger childhood. He was in the middle of a new transition, a transition you were not familiar with. Your hold around him tightened as you threaded fingers through his hair. “Oh, oh, my darling boy,” you whispered. “How could she not see what I see?” It was simple, succinct. He was beautiful; far more beautiful than you’d ever seen. 

You drew back, curving your fingers around his face. Your thumbs wiped away his tears. “How could she not see your light,” you said, tears of relief pricking your eyes. You did not know how close you were to losing him. How close you were to losing your purpose, and you did not want to know. You looked into his tear stained eyes and saw the world in all its rightness.

“I don’t know, Mom,” he sobbed. “I don’t know.”

“I promise you, Nero,” a tear slid down your left cheek. “I promise you will, someday soon. Oh, my love, you will.” You brought him back to you where he nestled his frustrations in the crook of your neck. Like the wounded child of yesterday, you rocked him steadfast.

A protective nature had drawn a course you trailed diligently. “Fly me to the moon, let me sing among the stars,” you sang tenderly in his ears. It did not take him long to fall under your song’s spell. “Let me see what life is like on Jupiter and Mars.” You did not hurry to release him but slowly laid him down to rest. Tears wobbled under his closed eyelids. You tucked the sheets around him, slipping the arm under the sheets as he preferred. 

Caressing his cheek with the back of your hand, you pressed a kissed where the tears dried. “A time will come when you will love yourself the way I love you,” you whispered. You pulled away reluctantly, wanting nothing more than to be there when he awoke. Alas, you had an important meeting to attend to and other errands to complete by midnight’s hour.

\--

It was not easy, what you intended. You had not committed to this channel for more than a decade; admittedly, you had no reason to do so. 

Nero was more than a reason.

Mitis Forest was an unusually cold place. Temperatures were known to dip at night time, but it was summer. You held your suspicions but knew it was more than a demonic presence lurking around.

“I see,” you murmured. “I see you there,” you pointed, readying Crimson & Clover. “But I don’t have time to play,” you cocked your guns. “I have a date.”

A date...yes, an important date, you thought as your wicked weave did its work. Enochian phrases rang proudly off your tongue. You dodged its fists and groaned at its tendrils but made short work of the demons (and others) treading on this holy land.

“Now,” you surveyed your handiwork. “It appears we’re ready.” Demonic and angelic blood was sturdier than most people realized. Individually, they were not much, but together? You made the circle and its proper inscriptions. You stood in its center. You opened your palm and procured a dagger; the pointed tip broke the skin of your finger tip above. Three drops were lost to the abyss.

“Pdee Barma,” you chanted. You waited. And waited. The circle beneath your feet resonated, burying itself in your skin and hair. You would not falter. Not now. The answers you sought could not be answered by another witch. Around your feet the rumble started, gently, softly. Hot needles encroached up to your torso, and you inhaled. You stepped back all the way to the outer line of the circle. You watched hair reform. Gathering in a spiral, its threatened to crumble the trees beneath, but you had prepared for this. 

Your blood did the trick. The three drops of blood was a conductor, and black lightning strung around, halting the creature’s complete transformation. She formed beautifully, as you expected. You tried to calm your stomach and swallowed the fear resting in your throat. “I call upon you,” you said in a quiet voice. “I beseech you, Judge of Retribution, Madama Belhor.”

Almond shaped rubies regard you. A smile painted red with the blood of her enemies shined at you, but you did not wilt. “I am surprised,” she set her elbow down, tucking her knuckles under her chin. “You have not summoned my presence in many years. Come for a motherly chat?”

“No.”

She pouted. “Oh, so cold,” she pressed her other hand to her chest. “You wound me.”

“I doubt anything can.” You cleared your throat. “I have come to ask something of you.”

“Of me?” Her chuckle made the dirt under your feet rumble. “It amuses me you have come to make a request,” she gestured mildly. “Without anything to exchange.”

You were nonplussed. “You assume I don’t.” Your mother was not the sort to provide assistance without receiving something in return. It was the same for all madamas; yet, you had to admit she seemed to be a special case. “You may make your terms once I have received the information I need.”

“Need?” She leaned close to you. “You have a need.” A pink tongue rolled out of her mouth and onto her upper lip. “Yes,” she inhaled. “You do have a need. I smell it on you like a bitch in heat, and something else.” Her eyes glimmered hungrily. “Sparda.”

Your left eye twitched. “It’d make me a monkey’s aunt if I did not expect you’d come in contact with him,” you said. “As you know, Sparda is dead.”

“To the human world,” she corrected, preening her massive, mantis green head shield. “Rumors float here in Inferno, as you know.”

“Yes,” you replied slowly. It was best to keep the conversation on the subject. “I am mentoring a descendant of his.”

“Of Sparda?” She frowned thoughtfully. Her massive head turned to the ancient church to the right. “I thought his,” she stopped in the middle of her thought. “That damned little snake,” frosted spikes burned in her tone.

You stepped forward. “What?”

“Nothing.” She returned to the present and folded her arms to her front. “It appears you are in contact with this descendant of Sparda. A question?”

You knew an evade when you heard one but would not be swayed. “My charge produced a...,” you sucked in your bottom lip and opened your palm. A dragonfly fluttered in between you where a river flowed from you to her. “It is not indescribable, but I want you to see it.”

“Little dragonflies,” she mused. “How cute.” But she let the dragonfly rest on the tip of her finger where she brought it to her ear. “Yes,” she nodded. “Oh my, this is fascinating.” You waited, tense, as they conversed. She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. “I cannot believe it,” she extended her hand. “You are far more amusing than your mistress.”

You remained silent and watched the butterfly flutter into nothingness.

“I presume you have an answer.”

“I presume you already know,” she replied, grinning. “Have you missed Mommy? Has it been hard, living all alone?”

“I am not going to argue with you,” you said tightly. “I wish only to know.” You spread your arms, beckoning for the answer you sought.

“You could be so stubborn,” she drummed her fingers. “Just like your father. Ah well, I shall answer your question.” She hummed. “The thing your sweet, dear son has procured is the physical manifestation of what little demonic blood he possesses.” She touched her own arm, parading it with pride. “I must say it is a beautiful instrument, having seen one similar to this a long time ago. I would love to possess one for myself or,” she smiled crudely, “for you my dear.”

You winced. “I’d rather not. But why now? Why…,” you quieted. “What is your price?”

She hummed, thoughtfully. “I suppose there are countless things I can ask of you but nothing would meet my requirements,” she tapped her shielded crown. Her smile returned. “As you have provided me information I did not know before,” she said warmly, “I shall take that as my payment.”

“What?” You stepped forward. The tip of your shoe almost disrupted the fine line you’d drawn. “The information I gave you is nothing,” you explained. “I wanted,” you did not finish your sentence. Madama Belhor placed a finger in front of her lips.

“I know it seems like a small thing, dear,” she explained, “but for demons like us, knowledge is everything. I thought they taught you that at your little club.”

“Little club,” your nostrils flared. You deflated, instantly. It was best not to fight her on this. “I thank you, Great Belhor.” You bowed. “It is time I take my leave.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “It is time.” 

You watched as the blood threads that kept her in place evaporated. Your hair retreated back to you, and she descended. Her smile was a permanent fixture on her black skin. “I cannot wait to tell her,” she proclaimed like an adolescent girl having found the juiciest drop of gossip. “Oh, she will be impressed.”

She was gone.

And the night was still.

You chewed on what she said and didn’t say. What did she mean by she? And what about Sparda, the black spot on the Umbran name? The man responsible for the death of The Progenitor; the first witch to grasp their cherished Left Eye. 

What did Madama Belhor have to do with him? He was not listed in the registry of contracted demons. Your developing theories gnaw at you. 

“I may have to conduct some independent research,” you decided. As your theories took root in your thoughts, a dragonfly landed on your shoulder. “What is it,” you asked.

Its wings flapped.

Your stare narrowed. “He’s here,” you sighed. You looked ahead to the wilderness. A short distance away, the city awaited. “My date has arrived, and lucky for me,” you checked your watch, “it isn’t midnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khepri - Scarab  
> Butterfly - Butterfly  
> Styx - Moth  
> Belhor - Hooded Mantis
> 
> Praying Mantis are known for eating their mates during reproduction.
> 
> I don't think I conveyed that as well as I wanted to. I didn't want to spend too much time focusing on her physical attributes. 
> 
> Reader's story is partially touched on, but it isn't a full set. She has things she'll have to go through to get to the truth of the story, if she chooses to, but right now, her main priority is securing Nero's potential and safety. She's kind of a worry wart.
> 
> Umbran witches in Bayonetta seem pretty ambivalent on Sparda based on what I was able to find.
> 
> As always, thank you, and I appreciate your feedback!


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante is a sad clown.
> 
> I am going to do my best in writing this sad clown of a half-demon man.

Dante knew Lady was onto something the moment he set foot on Fortuna. Was it the air? The puritan dressed citizens? Or possibly, the dense atmosphere of oppression that set alarms off in his head? Hard to tell with so many clues. At the end of it what mattered was that he sensed something was amiss, and for better or worse, he intended to find out.

But before he ventured to discovery, he needed Lady's informant. Characteristically cryptic, Lady hadn't given him much information. "They'll find you," she told him, but it wasn't too much to ask for gender, preferred pronouns, favorite meals or whether they liked warm walks on the beach. Were they human or demon? Or by pure chance, an abomination throttled in between? He scaled the ceilings, searching for anything interesting. Soon, boredom set in.

He stopped on a rooftop not too far from the cathedral. A religion centered on Sparda, his father, was ludicrous at best, dangerous at worst. He laughed at her - at the idea more than her - but like always, Lady had proven her intel was worthy. Dante didn't know what to feel about that. An enemy demon curse and swear vengeance upon he and his father was one thing; human worship as a god was another thing he had to get used to.

"Always a surprise," stamping his foot on the ledge, Dante beheld the city in its evening gown. Trish had gone ahead, assuming they’d reach her sooner or later. Knowing Trish, it was likelier she’d find them first. For now, he’d wait for Lady’s informant to come to him, rather than wandering aimlessly. “Gotta admit,” he thought, gazing upon the city, “it is a gorgeous view.” Foreboding clouds outlined beauty, marring its majestic sheen with the knowledge of things going from bad to worse, but he didn’t want to think about that right now.

Gazing into the night mists his sights detected an oddity that clashed with the landscape. He squinted, narrowing down to stilts as he watched something flutter towards him. A spring green dragonfly landed on his boot tip. Rainbow reflected on its wings. “I’ll be damned,” he murmured, surprised by its coloring. “Where’d you come from, lil guy?” He bent low, aiming for the hindwings - the most prominent pair on its torso. At the last second, when his fingernails brushed against the wings’ gentle skin, the insect took the air.

It flew to the crown of his head, wings slowing. Dante inched to the strand of white hair, cursing when he revealed he was a second too slow. It flew to his shoulder where he failed there. It ticked his nose, trons twitching curiously. Dante held his breath, locked in a staring contest with an insect. He raised his hand steadily, training his vision on the insect only. All he had to do was time it right.

He slapped his nose. He slapped it hard, expecting to hear a satisfying crunch. The dragonfly, having anticipated the move, flew above his head and kept going. Not bothering to pause to check if he was following. Which he wasn’t, not immediately. “Okay,” Dante groaned. “Maybe you aren’t your everyday bug.” It wanted him to follow it. Fine. It could’ve said so, but he wasn’t sure if dragonflies or demonflies for the matter were capable of human speech. He pursued the dragonfly, seeing its lazy speed was a facade to ease him into it. It sped through the night, across the town, and Dante, grumbled, matching its speed in pursuit.

Its intent became clear in a short matter of time. In the far distance screams of horror and death marred the tranquil night. City street lights shined on the river of blood gushing down the streets. Halves and quarters of bodies were thrown, tossed, swimming in the streams. Survivors rushed, pushing and throwing themselves on top of each other. The stench revolted him, but it was no different than he inhaled several hours earlier in Red Grave. On the ledge of the rooftop, he grabbed Ebony & Ivory, ready to indulge in this ghastly pastime and was over the ledge in an instant, diving feet first.

He didn’t get to touch the ground.

He did, touch the ground that is, but what he found there wasn’t what he was expecting. 

The dragonfly had returned and wasn’t alone. A swarm collected, connecting to each other, and out of the energy resonating from each of their abdomens was a slender, well formed foot, undoubtedly attached to a leg. Yes. It wasn’t particularly odd in his line of work, pretty average if anyone was asking him, but the aforementioned foot didn’t go undefended. Attached to each heel was a crimson red pistol, and it aimed its barrel at the marionettes frolicking around with their bounty in hand.

“Who said you could touch,” you whispered. A barrage of bullets danced out of her heels as you entered the fray, dressed to impress and to evade. You didn’t wait for your acquaintance to pick up but was relieved to see that he had. Several went down by your hand, and you stood in your battle ready position, unsurprised to feel his back on yours. You didn’t glance at him but knew he had glanced at you.

“Sorry, ma’am.” He chuckled. “Didn’t know it belonged to you.”

You smirked. “We’ll discuss proper etiquette later,” you teased, caught in the whiff of an underwhelming battle, “lets clean up before the cavalry arrives.”

He covered the left flank. You covered the right. Crimson & Cover did the dirty deeds, shooting with alarming precision, and what didn’t take with bullets, certainly took with a good fistful of demonic arms, though you didn’t require calling upon a name. A skyscraper sized demoness right in the center of the town? Blasphemous. You had a reputation to keep, and most importantly, you didn’t want him to know anymore than you wanted him to know.

Lost in your thoughts, his shout rang above the clash of blade and bullet. “Hey, sweet cheeks,” he was pushed back, thrusting his gun ahead. “You were talking about that cavalry?”

Glaring in the direction he spoke of, “Shit.” Credo dressed in formal white and gold hurried ahead. You didn’t shout to Dante, merely calling upon the forces and dissipated in a swarm before anyone could notice you. It helped that your Umbran uniform was designed specifically for situations like this.

“Just gonna leave me all on my lonesome,” Dante shouted at you, pointing an accusatory finger at your swarm. But you paid no heed to him. A smart man would know an escape when he saw one.

\--

“What was that back there?”

“I wanted you to properly assess the situation.”

Another rooftop, further out from the city’s main square, you stood in a coat of darkness. You’d heard stories, rumors more appropriately, about the famed devil hunter. You assumed they were exaggerations of a less impressive truth, to butter up the historical records or so to speak. But standing in close proximity to him cast the validity of the rumors. Strength resonated off him, a dark, dangerous strength untold. You were not afraid. There was no time for fear as forces unknown to you escalated.

Dante studied you, casting a jovial smile to temper awkward tensions. You were no fool. You’d anticipated such a stare the moment the devil hunter realized what you were. An impatient man, he stalked towards you, eyes gleaming dangerously under moonlight. “You’re no ordinary witch,” he concluded.  
  
“And you are no ordinary demon,” you replied.

“So the kid?”

You refused to show any remnant of emotion. “He is under my watch,” you clarified. “But he’s…,” you frowned, searching for the right description, “at an unruly stage of childhood.”

“You mean teenagers?”

Your snorted. “Yes,” you conceded. “Teenagers. I preferred not to start an argument on his induction into the Order, but he is not one of them, I assure you.”

It was imperative you emphasized this fact. Nero had grown bolder, more aggressive in the passing years, but he was not one of them. Perhaps your tone bit at something in Dante’s minds. He closed the gap and patted your shoulder, chuckling thinly.

“No worries, Mama Bear.” You twitched at the name. “I won’t hurt your precious cub, but you’re gonna have to tell me what you know exactly.” He pointed to his feet, strengthening the point. Unfortunately, you didn’t know as much as you wanted, but you were able to provide vital information. Your suspicions over what they were doing had become clear to you that they were morphing their bodies into something else. The covers assumed an angelic appearance, certainly, and you understood the confusion. Angels hadn’t been reported in this realm for centuries, not since the First War against Mundus’ forces.

“Another power lies contained in Fortuna castle.” You continued on. “I don’t know what it is, but it lies deep under Fortuna Castle. My dragonflies,” your hand curved above, “have reached the lower bowels of the place, and yet, this energy repels them. I’d have to go there myself to view it properly. However, my circumstances prevent my leaving.” It wasn’t that you couldn’t and wouldn’t do it, but you’ve conscripted yourself to a role you hadn’t anticipated as your mission extended beyond any reasonable amount. What excuses could you provide; although you’ve risen in popularity, you were denied general access to Headquarters and any inner Order machinations. As frustrating as it was, you required Dante’s more refined skills. “It’s fractured,” you added. “Whatever power they’ve cultivated is fractured in two, and the emotions have festered,” revulsion curled at the corner of your lips. You tried to hide the tremor stumbling up your shoulders. “The last time I’ve felt such rage, despair and coldness in my life was in Helheim.”

Absorbing your information, Dante walked away, thoughtful. Intuition hardened his expression, aging him. You sensed he knew more than he was willing to say, but you didn’t pry. Whatever his reasons, you had to assume they were for the best; they had to be. In case they weren’t. “What are you thinking, Son of Sparda,” you warned, just a touch to convey the threat in your tone. You didn’t think you possessed similar power, not to his extent, but you were more than willing to challenge it, no matter the cost. 

He regarded you shrewdly, lips upturned. “Mama Bear, don’t be like that,” he closed the distance in an instant, tapping your clothed forehead with two fingers. “I’m just thinking about how we’re going to go about this. An associate of mine is already here.” Your shoulders spiked, though you recovered quickly. You hadn’t anticipated a third person, based on his tone this acquaintance wasn’t the dark haired woman you encountered by happenstance several days ago. Sensing your unease, he grinned. “Don’t worry, she won’t pick on your cub much,” he patted your shoulder again. “Just cause a shit load of headache for me.”

You exhaled, wanting to ask more questions, wanting to bury yourself in the truth. Not tonight. Not now. Your phone vibrated in your left pocket, and you groaned, slipping it out of view. “Pesky children,” you complained, glancing up to apologize for the interruption. But he was already gone, out of sight and near of mind. You weren’t disappointed if merely fascinated at his expertise; he had stumbled throughout the city earlier, a bumbling idiot if you’ve ever seen one. And you had.

“What sort of tricks does the devil have up his cowboy boot,” you murmured, returning your phone to its pocket. You snapped your finger and giggled at the familiar sensation. It was not a tearing apart, just a morphing of molecules, and each molecule produced a dragonfly, coated in green and red. “Let’s see if we can make it home before Kyrie does.”

\--

“Do you think Nero will make it?”

You understood why he’d taken such a shine to her, not that you needed to understand. You saw it the moment they met despite the realization bringing forth complicated, conflicting emotions. At the time, you were simply relieved he had made a friend, a good friend, a solid foundation. You didn’t anticipate it’d transition to romantic affection, but you weren’t going to complain. Kyrie was a good influence on Nero. You studied the worry lines on her forehead and smiled, clasping her hands into yours.

“I believe he will, or will make a hard effort at it.” Your periphery caught the stares of onlookers, curious at the color of your eyes. You weren’t offended. You nodded and smiled, more than enough to direct their attention elsewhere. “Nero is just occupied right now. Please, don’t let his attendance hinder your performance.”

A gentle, pristine young woman, Kyrie was. Your clasp tightened, and your smile thickened, urging her to task. “The children are most excited to see your performance,” an arrangement you had fought tooth and nail for with His Holiness. You never thought you’d meet such a stubborn, crotchety old man despite his appearance. There was a crude, malicious glint in his eye, one you couldn’t describe accurately and preferred not to. 

“His burdens are plenty,” Kryie said softly, looking towards the crowd flowing in. A pale, pink blush softened her complexion, and her eyes glistened. “I know it may sound not be much, this -,”

“Nonsense, it is for the glory of the Savior,” you added, without a single grimace. You’d assumed the role completely, absolutely, and was a little impressed at your ability to blend in so efficiently. Your stomach still twinged at referring the Treacherous One as a savior, but it was one of the many things you did out of love and duty. “Now, go, I will save you both a seat.”

“She’s right, Kyrie. Nero will arrive in good time.”

A pebble tumbled down your spine, teasing you. You didn’t turn around quickly, though you felt your smile tightened. “Supreme General,” you nodded shortly. “It is reassuring to see you in good health.”

“Mother Superior,” Credo nodded, also shortly. “It is good to see you in good health.” An uncomfortable beat passed until Kyrie filled the silence with enthusiastic chatter. You stared at the young man, studying the contrast of age and appearance. He seemed much older than his older twenties; you blamed the receding hairline and disciplined manner he upheld. So firm, so detached and disciplined, you wondered if he suspected anything; without a doubt, if he did know, action would’ve been taken against you immediately. All possibilities held potential, including his knowledge of Nero’s blood. The thought made you twinge internally; hopefully, it wouldn’t have to come to that. You knew the lengths of Nero’s admiration and affection for Kyrie and Credo.

For now, you played nice, and whether he knew the truth or not was irrelevant. “I was prepping Kyrie for her performance,” you brightened considerably. “She has blossomed into a wonderful young woman and you, a powerful young man. I’m sure your parents would be proud.”

He nodded stiffly but gratefully. “Thank you, Mother Superior.” He faced Kyrie, “It is time, Kyrie.”

You waved them off. “I will save you a seat,” you reassured, and there you sat near the older children as the other sisters kept a sharp eye on the younger ones.

Nero arrived towards the song’s ending. You weren’t surprised. He slipped in on the side, quieter than a mouse and said nothing, except for a few lingering gasps. With a small smile, you glanced at his pocket, spotting a rectangular box draped in pastel blue and a soft ribbon covering. 

“Well done,” you whispered. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

The groan in the back of his throat confirmed your suspicions. Although rude in a gentle sort of way, you couldn’t weaken the smile on your face. “Mother,” he scoffed irritably. He didn’t return his headphones to his ears; he wouldn’t do that to Kyrie. You enjoyed the last moments of the performance, and nodded kindly at Kyrie as she found her seat beside him, you paid no attention to her appreciative stare.

Father Sanctus rose to his pedestal. You did not stiffen at the sight of the old man, a pompous figure you could not swallow entirely despite your best attempts. Nero stood to leave, aggravation sewn on his face, and was stopped only when Kyrie grabbed his wrist. You remained silent, leaving them to their disagreement. It was only when you saw an approaching shadow, a shadow you recognized instantly, that your stomach soured.

“What is that idiot doing?”

\--

“You killed him.” You paced, arms folded behind your back. Anger blinded you for a period, and you thought you’d summon some horrible monstrosity to show them the true depravity of demon kind. You didn’t. You continued to pace, unable to think in the moment except repeating the same sentence over and over again until your throat rawed. “You killed him. You killed him. What did you think to gain from killing him in front of the congregation?”

Dante was frustratingly calm. He’d wiped the blood off his face, leaving the rest to blend in with his coat and clothes. “You really think he’s dead,” he tossed the rag aside. “You’re a smart woman.”

No. You did not believe His Holiness was dead anymore than you believed he was holy. You spun on your heels, expression drawn to bitterness and expelled a breath you’d been holding for the past five minutes. “No,” you conceded. “His death so early in the game would be too easy, but it wasn't wise to shoot him in front of an audience."

“I needed to measure Nero’s strength.”

You flinched at that. “Why?”

Dante snorted. “Come on, you know why.” You were in the far reaches of the town, far away for privacy if only temporarily. His stare bore onto you, up to the point where you couldn’t take it anymore. You looked away, embarrassed. “You can’t protect him forever.”

“I know that,” your gritted. It was a hard truth, one you knew you’d have to face someday. One day that precious, little hunter you held in your arms as a helpless infant would be all grown up. He wouldn’t need you anymore, and probably, if the truth was going to spill as you anticipated it would, he wanted you anymore. But wasn’t the part of parenthood? The tethers that bonded you morph and change constantly, and at some point, they’d die. You’d always known it’d happen and thought you’d be ready for it. “I just thought,” you wrapped your arms around yourself, “I’d have more time. That’s all.”

Your time was running out.

“Hey, look,” he raised his arms. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine,” more offended at his pitying stare, you snapped. "It's how it should be. He’s going to find out one way or another, might as get it over with. But first, we need to put an end to the Order’s plans.”

“And your boss?”

You sent him a glare that would’ve frightened a weaker man, then grinned. “Oh, she knows I’m not fond of politics,” you waved frivolously. Your Elder didn’t like anything you got into that disrupted her plans or went against the Umbran code, so you presumed she’d come around eventually once things calmed down; though it was likelier she wouldn’t, her disapproval didn’t concern you. You knew it should’ve, considering the events leading to this moment, but a certain type of giddiness bubbled in your stomach. You were excited, afraid. Its taste delighted you where practical sense said that it shouldn’t.

“You alright,” he grinned crookedly, measuring the details of your resolve. He couldn’t have you bowing out now, not when the going was getting good. 

You swallowed.

You were not alright. You were, in fact, far from alright, and you doubted you’d ever be alright again. You were alright as you planned the day’s activities; the children had looked forward to the outing if not their church attendance, the museum was more appealing. You were alright when Nero called you that morning, just before the crack of dawn as he left the Order of the Sword’s barracks. You were alright then.

Alright wouldn't come for awhile, you supposed.

_“Hey, baby girl, how you doing?”_

You smiled. “Yeah,” you smirked back. “I’m good.”

Having survived worse things, a little disappointment and estrangement was spilled milk on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing Reader and Dante's interactions was more fun than I expected. I really like how they bounce off each other.
> 
> Trash Uncle is the best. Dante tried the best way he knew how. (I'm still surprised he wasn't the one to have some random, born out of wedlock kid out there. Maybe he does?)


	6. VI

“I want the truth.”

 _The truth_...you heard a woman’s laugh...but woman was a sludge of an insult of the creature you conjured in your thoughts. Hematite crystals played the role of skin under a sheet of jade particles; star sapphires accented her shape. Red onyx sparkled at you, and saliva slobbered over a meaty grin.

_“A trade is a trade. What will you give me for your truth?"_

Nero was not a child anymore. Young, yes. Child? So far from it. He was not someone to protect from the world's uncomfortable realities. As awake as ever, your chest throttled inside you. This was the moment you feared - the moment you had wanted to prevented but was too weak to try. Your mental preparations had all failed. You were not ready. Would never be ready. And with his glare on you, a glare you'd never seen directed at you, you knew there was only one option left.

"Okay," you spread your arms helplessly. "I'll give you the truth."

A concoction of emotions swirled in his gaze; anger, confusion and betrayal. You tried to pick which one was the worst. Doctors usually made patients measure pain between a scale of 1 to 10; you did not think this was necessary or even prudent. The pain you felt was sharp enough to be a ten; also, it was a pain you knew you could endure at ten or negative one. 

With Kyrie’s abduction and Credo’s death, you concentrated your strength on your enemies. You’d accomplished what needed to be done at the time, defeating Sanctus and saving Fortuna. You summoned your contracted demons, those infernal abominations of Inferno (or The Underworld), and did what you were trained to do ever since you were seven years old. All the while, you knew he was watching. You knew he saw everything and had more questions than his mind was able to conjure up; they were secondary to Kyrie, Credo and you were grateful for the intermission. But now, everything was said and done; the city-state was in a cloud of confusion and uncertainty. You were trapped in a foggy limbo, unsure as to when the Elder would contact you again. 

You crouched on a cracked training ground bench. You didn’t say anything initially. You didn’t know where or when to start and didn’t think you’d be able to explain to him every intricate detail. A script would’ve been nice, you mused silently. At least, following that could’ve softened the blows. “Where do you want me to start,” you croaked. 

Nero refused to sit down. He paced, unable to look at you and yet unable to not look at you. “I don’t know how about the fucking monster you summoned out of your,” he paused, gesticulating at your hair, habit hood abandoned and freed in the air. It’s thick, kinky, coarse curls were bound in numerous braids, normally wound in a neat bun on the lower right of your head. “What are you,” he let out in a tight squeeze, glancing down at his demon arm, now a muted, cool blue. Devil bringer...you corrected. That was what Dante called it. 

Should you start at the very beginning? If so, which beginning? No. It was too soon, and he couldn’t handle so many truths in a single day. “I am an Umbran Witch,” you stood with an exhale. “Our legacy spans over two thousand years and countless wars, both demonic and divine.”

Nero glared. “Divine, I thought...Dante said,” he trailed off uncertainly. You nodded, understanding what he meant. Angels did not exist in the same realm or concept as commonly believed. In actuality, angels were merely demons in another, separate form, sometimes for the better, most times not. What made them unique was that they didn’t require human blood for their strength; their abilities originated and multiplied from ulterior means. “Whatever,” he shook his head, “what was that thing you summoned, and your hair?”

“Our power and knowledge are strengthened when a pact is made with an infernal demon, although there are many, an Umbra witch's sponsor is usually the one, though other pacts are made simultaneously,” your words were chosen carefully, each enunciated for his understanding. His expression indicated neither confusion or comprehension, resolved in anger. Your heels clicked softly, stepping over broken cobblestones. “What you saw were the arms and legs of a contracted demon. Witches must choose a medium to manifest these features. Hair is most convenient."

“Your hair?” He frowned contemplatively. “And that thing,” he paused, deliberately. “What was it that fought Sanctus?”

Your lips pursed tightly. “My situation is unusual,” you spread your arms helplessly before folding your knuckles back into your palm. “It was the full manifestation of my power. I can summon many demons like Baal -,"

"Baal?"

"The toad," you clarified. "And Labolas -,"

"Labolas," he finished. "The dog."

You inhaled. "Good," you exhaled. "I promised you would not grow up totally ignorant of the world under this one. Labolas was The Progenitor's beloved pet."

Nero, though wary, did not push you away. "The Progenitor?"

"You want the truth?"

His silence answered for him.

"The Progenitor was the first witch and the first entity to rise up against demon-kind," you crossed your hands, fingers intertwined. "She orchestrated a full front rebellion against Mundus, the King of the Underworld. She united humans and demons, Lumen Sages and Umbra Witches. All worked together to preserve humanity."

"What happened?"

You pressed two two fingers to your temples. "Sparda," you answered. "Before he rose to justice, he was Mundus' knight and general. Someone in The Progenitor's ranks betrayed her, allowing the Legendary Dark Knight to slay her."

"But then he turned."

"He did." You shrugged. "It was what we were taught, and no Elder has allowed us to forget primordial sin."

"And you?"

"What?"

He gestured.

“I did say my mother was a demon."

“Yeah, like when I was five. I thought you were trying to make me feel better about my hair and eyes."

"Yes, I was. I wasn't joking." You pointed to your own. "Amethyst? These aren't contacts, Nero."

Comprehension softened his features. He turned away, thoughtfully. “So that insect woman you spawned out of your hair was you,” he said, quietly, if a little amazed. 

“Yeah."

“Why?”

You thought the answer was clear, but children, no matter the age, were stupid. You were desperate. Kyrie was gone. Nero was gone. You trusted him to save her, as you trusted him (usually) to make the right decision. You watched him disappear out of your sight and for the briefest moments, felt his power dwindle into nothing.

Terror. Blind, desperate terror overwhelmed you, and you called upon the dark forces, unlocking the door that kept your power at bay. Crimson eyes. Malachite skin. Lapis lazuli covering glowed atop.

“It wasn't complicated,” you said plainly. “I wanted to protect you, so I did.”

You wanted him to understand that if not believe it. He looked back at your, curious. “Why? How?” Uncertainty slipped into his voice. “I don’t get it.”

“Nero,” your smile strained to convey your reassurance. “Umbran contracted demons are not normal demons.” Instructors identified the Upper Arcana demons as second to the underworld ruler, a courtesy they permitted. “Demons thrive on human blood,” you explained, “but not these demons, they are different. No one knows where the source of their power originated, but it exceeds most demons, even the ruler. To pacify them, underworld rulers have forged pacts, rituals and alliances.” Your throat tightened. “We call them Madamas.”

“And you’re a Madama?”

A burst of laughter tore out of your mouth. Childish in nature, the question barreled down on you. "I am not," you wiped an eye. "I haven't earned the title. I'm too young and inexperienced. "I can’t recollect any hybrid has become a madama, but then again, there aren’t many hybrids.”

He frowned, digesting the information. “So,” he started slowly. “Why are you here?”

Your throat throbbed visibly, a deep swallow you couldn’t hide. Closing the distance, you were relieved when he didn’t pull back and gently grabbed his demon arm. You led him to a stone bench. He sat beside you, and you released his hand, folding yours on your lap. 

Your throat felt thick; an accumulation of mucus rode on the inner walls. “I was assigned to Fortuna,” you exhaled. 

“Assigned?”

You nodded stiffly. “Yes, I was assigned,” you confessed. “I was a little shit in school, and my elders wanted a suitable punishment. An extended assignment in Fortuna, to protect a Sparda descendant.”

“So...you were forced to stay here?” You couldn’t tell whether it was disbelief or shock or something else, but you were pretty sure it was betrayal. He scowled, jawline popping out through skin. “You stayed for a job.”

“I did.” You couldn’t convey the seriousness of your admittance. “I was told to protect you. It was my assignment, but…,” you frowned, unable to say it in its clearest tones.

“What,” he barked. “You fell in love with me or something,” he laughed sardonically, though the cracks within betrayed him.

You rolled your shoulders. “Yeah,” you admitted. “That’s what happened.” You stretched your legs and back, gripping the side of the bench. “I’ve angered my elders for disobeying protocol. I was told to protect you, not raise you. There’s a big difference between the two. I don’t think they considered the ramifications of my relocation at a religious orphanage for the next seventeen years. The Elder felt, feels,” you amended quickly, “my involvement with you has led me astray, has made me forget my purpose.”

“And what is it?”

“The hell I know.” Your rueful smile met your eyes. “Purpose is something you make, forge out of your desire. It can’t be defined for you.” You stared ahead, quiet. “My elder thinks otherwise.”

His anger was palpable, thick and oozing. He didn’t stand for some reason. You were expecting him to stand, shout and scream at you, but he was almost deathly quiet. Was this worse? Probably. “So, I was just a job to you.”

“Yeah, you were a job.” You faced him, bluntly. “I work at an orphanage. It is a job, a calling for some, but you aren’t supposed to love your assignment Nero. That’s why they’re concerned. They believe I’ve found something worthier in life outside our cause."

“Have you?”

You smirked. “Yes,” you said with satisfaction. “I think I have.”

All emotional detection quickened to a pause. Stoicism had taken root after so many lessons, and you did your best not to raise the alarm. You feared the worst, but the worst wasn’t nearly as horrible as you thought. You’d accept his decision. You’d accept his anger and frustration and hurt, so you did not move. You pressed your nails so deep into your palms until skin tore. Blood wept freely.

“So,” he said after what seemed hours. “They think I’m Dante’s?”

You blinked. “What?”

He rolled his eyes. “You said they think I’m a Sparda descendant. So am I Dante’s?” He scoffed. "And they wanted you to protect the descendant of their enemy?"

"Look, it sounds...far fetched," you confessed. He glared at you, and you raised your hands. "I'm telling you the truth. I don't know. I can tell you Dante didn't imply you were. He'd say something about that, I think, maybe." You frowned, pausing. "Eventually."

“And what about your records?”

“Also no,” you cringed, realizing information on the Legendary Dark Knight was weaker than you thought. You’d scourged the Umbran archives in Vigrid as well as the Lumen archives; neither provided the material you need. “Confidentially, ancient scrolls identify Sparda had one other child that died in the early 1000s. The little information we possess report the child’s white hair and crystal blue eyes.” You gestured to his arm. “You absorbed his Yamato. That alone proves you carry his blood, but how close? Maybe a great-great grandson?" You shrugged. "Come on, he was over 2,000 years old when he died, probably much older than that."

“His closest living relative is Dante.”

“His son, yes.”

His brow furrowed. “We’re related,” his knuckles cracked. He looked back at you. “And you’re telling me the truth,” he insisted squarely. Another lie wouldn’t help you in this instance.

“I’m telling you the truth I know.” It was the best you could do right now. “Our information is incomplete,” you exhaled sharply, leaning forward. You smoothed your hands against each other. “They’d hate to admit that our information is limited, mind you, but it is.”

Limited knowledge seemed to be the bane of human existence. Her voice lingered, and you saw a massive, night sculpted hand fold over lips redder than the morning rose. Truth and knowledge.. _.I shall be the judge of that_...twisted in your gut, and you refocused your attention when you heard Nero speak.

“So what now?”

“What?”

“Your Umbran Elder,” he clarified, rolling his hands under his chin. “What’s she going to do now?”

“I don’t know.” You had some fun ideas - many that weren’t exactly amusing. Although you teased at the possibility, you hadn’t fully considered what would happen since the conclusion of your assignment. You didn’t think you were finished by any means. Nero was young and had so much more to learn, but you didn’t question his capabilities as they were. He was strong enough to protect himself and others. He didn’t need your protect anymore. “Whatever her decision,” you murmured quietly, ignoring the painful thumps of your heart, “I’ll probably ignore it.” 

What else were you going to do? You were no longer a child, no longer a pile of clay to mold to her fitting. “What she wants is irrelevant,” you continued, rubbing the ring of your left middle finger. “Your feelings matter to me,” you returned to him and faced the full brunt of his uncertainty. “If you want me to stay, I will stay. If you want me to leave, I will...probably stay for the orphanage. I can’t just leave them.” That earned you a grin. “But I will not interfere with your progress or life. I understand, Nero.”

He surprised you. “I...you lied to me,” he growled. “You lied to me, and so did Credo.” His expression crumbled, and he looked much like the boy he still was. “Did you know?”

“I suspected their plans,” you said slowly. “I didn’t know what. That’s why I contacted Dante. Options were limited.” Limited in ways you hadn’t anticipated. You sighed. “I am sorry, Nero. I know how much he meant to you.”

“At least I know why you never liked him,” Nero retorted. “And don’t say you didn’t.”

“I didn’t like him,” you did not hesitate. “He, like many people in this town, were led by blind faith, and I can never like that. But that didn’t mean I didn’t respect him. He was an honorable man and loved you and Kyrie. It’s impossible for me to hate someone who loves you and who you love in return.”

He looked at you, completely and openly. Gone the seasoned warrior, replaced with a small, frightened boy whose world had turned completely upside down. You opened your arms, knowing what this meant, and let out a soft sob as he buried himself into your arms. His cheek rested on your shoulder; you caressed his hair and kissed his cheek, salty tears replacing sweet sweat. You cradled him, just as you did when he was a small and weak, fragile to the rest of the world. 

“Please,” he mumbled, almost too quietly for you to hear. “Mom, please, don’t leave.”

You rested your hand on his head. “Ah, for you my love,” you heard yourself say, “I’ll stay.”

It was strange to say it aloud. Fortuna was a town, a world you did not like and would never like, though you’ve grown a level of tolerance for it, but simply standing by him, knowing he’d never leave without Kyrie and had found his purpose here, you’d stay.

You’d stay as long as he needed you.

\--

“I must say I am not surprised,” the Umbran Elder drawled slowly. “But I am disappointed.” She lifted her concealed head and bluish green sparkled at you. “You carry other responsibilities than the child.”

You sat behind your desk. You managed to save enough for a computer, an actual computer to transfer all finances onto, and you were a little giddy about it. “Yes, Kyrie and I are planning to visit the shelter. Nero will stay here and mind the children.” 

Your noticed the sporadic twitch neatly covered behind her glasses. “Your care and affection for this city is admirable, but there are other matters to attend to.”

“I am more than happy to attend to them,” you replied easily. “As long as I am permitted to return here at the end of the day. Kyrie is an exceptional cook, and the children adore her.” You were not guaranteed a long life, but the oldest witch recorded lived to 1085 years old, dying of natural causes. “I think she will be pleased to assume my role in a few years or so.” Or you hoped. An adventurous spirit, covered under mundane responsibilities, had resurfaced, and most importantly, so did your independence.

“And what after?”

You shrugged, indifferently. “I certainly won’t stay here, but I don’t see myself returning to Vigrid either.” 

“It is in your best interests to return to your home.”

“Hm.” You hummed, clicking away on a new program. “I think you have forgotten who I am,” you replied mildly, distracted by the rising numbers. Why must children be so expensive? “Umbran Elder, I have performed dutifully for our clans and the Umbran way. Maybe we can reestablish another Fortuna coven now? Almost two millennia has passed since the last Umbra witches had laid a claim on the island. The Lumen Sages are definitely interested."

Your glare folded behind her lens, but you knew you had drawn her interest. 

"As if I would ever establish a coven where Hypatia of Fortuna is seen as a pariah, a betrayer of mankind." She sneered. "She stood for humanity. She protected humanity. And look at her now, a memory abandoned to obscurity."

You rolled your eyes. "I understand what happened was a tragedy." You sighed. "I know she was a true visionary, but she died. Sparda lived. History wrote him as the savior, not her."

"I thought this place would have taught you some respect, child."

"You sent me off to a backward, puritan island where a demon is worshiped as a god and assumed I'd return to you with open arms?"

“After you stole -,”

“Yeah, yeah, a long dead witch ancestor’s relic,” you waved dismissively. “I know the story. I know it. Now, let's move onto more important matters.” You set aside your work and entwined your fingers, resting your elbows on your desk. A sharp glean passed over your glasses. “Like our recent acquisition of Ithavoll Group shares?”

She did not move. She did not twitter. Not even a single twitch. But her eyes - always something about the eyes - blinked two times faster than normal, and she glanced briefly to the side.

“Oh, Elder Lilith,” your lips curled into a triumphant smirk. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t find out? I’m sure Mummy and Balder are thrilled about this?”

Your glare tightened. “They are aware.”

“And Cereza,” your wrist gestured casually. “I’m sure the newly instated CEO is more than pleased.”

“The Outcast -,”

“Hasn’t she’s gone by Bayonetta for the past twenty years or so?”

“Is...pleased.”

You snorted. “I’m sure she is,” you smirked. “She’s been banking on this for a while now, as you know.” Perhaps, your smirk was too knowing or too bold for the Elder’s preferences. She said nothing as hair and smoke swirled at her feet, engulfing her, but her glare sufficed, the warning brewing in her irises. 

You leaned back in your chair. The phone rang. “Yes,” you smiled into the receiver. “Oh, Kyrie, yes, that sounds marvelous. The children love your cooking. We’ll discuss preparations tonight, and I have a surprise for you.” Her excitement had grown, and you fell for it, smirk curling into a genuine smile. 

Yes, a surprise.

A lot of surprises were coming your way, but they weren’t an inkling in your thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the hardest parts is introducing new lore into established lore and combining the canon lore into it all.
> 
> Also writing Nero being mad at his mommy.


	7. Book Two: VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Catching up with Visions of V is enlightening. V is a total dork and is trying to be as not Vergil as possible. It's cute. Also, Nero was most likely still in bed when all this was happening, based on the most recent VoV chapter, but for the sake of the story, our stubborn hero is already back at work, killing demons. He does sleep in more often than not though. He's earned it.

_Weakness._

Appalled at what he’d done, at what he’d become, V stumbled out of the dark alleyway, no worse or better for wear. 

Saliva dribbled over his lip; a gasp spat out of his mouth as his nails curled on the wall’s grooves for support. What have I released onto this world...the first singular thought to enter his newly acquired thought process...And how am I to acquire the strength to stop it...followed as second.

Answering either question was not an easy task; more impossible than the first, the second daunted him as his mind forged possibilities. A way was possible; he just had to find it. Somehow, someway, he would find a way to end the demon he’d unleashed onto the world.

But first he needed clothes.

\--

You shifted your handbag on your shoulder, teeth drawing blood out of your cheek. Your phone rested between ear and hand; a grunt flared freely. A quiet walk was what you needed, but it was during your walk where your frustrations brimmed to the surface.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to visit?”

You’d left the store to run a quick errand and was returning to complete it. On the other line, a short sigh replied to your question.

“Mom, I told you. I’ve got this.”

“I know,” you agreed, stepping over a dead cat. You really needed to start using your GPS more often. “Kid, I know you’ve got this, but you’re still recovering.” 

Nero clicked his tongue, probably reclining in the van. “No rest for the wicked,” he answered you. “You think demons are going to rest just because I’m missing an arm.”

He had a point. A strong point that did not assuage your concerns. “I’m sure you’re doing fine, love,” you expressed, stopping in the middle of the alley. You tapped your boot. “I worry for you.”

“Mom, I’m 27.”

"You could be 275," you pointed out. "I'd still worry. That's the deal we make as parents. You understand."

Nero was silent, but you heard the way he sucked in his teeth, a sign your point had landed.

“Mom, I -,”

“Don’t you go worrying your pretty head off, Miss.” Her loud charm wiggled into your ear. “He’s got a top notch mechanic going on here, y’hear? I keep him out of trouble. Mostly.”

You let out a chuckle, some of your worry alleviated at the sound of Nico’s voice. “Thank you, Nicoletta,” you grinned. “I put my trust in your hands, not that you’ve given me any reason to doubt your capabilities. I just know how my boy can be.”

“Seriously, Mom -,”

“Oh you gotta tell me more baby stories.” 

“Oh,” you laughed earnestly. “I have a photo album back at the shop, maybe I should bring it over next time for dinner.”

“What?” He hissed a short distance away. “Nico, give me the phone back!”

A short struggle was heard - grunts and swears. Nico must have snagged the phone from Nero and was now trying to keep it out of his rich. It was a relief in some ways to know he’d made good friends outside of Kyrie; you couldn’t deny their sibling-like relationship.

“Alright, alright,” you stuck your tongue out, reaching the end of the alley. “I promise I won’t show the baby photos. All I ask is that you remain vigilant and cautious, Nero.”

He returned to the phone, almost breathless. “Yeah.” You saw in your mind’s eye the concern folding his brow. Pinching the skin. “You haven’t been able to find anything on the guy.”

“No,” you darkened. “But an informant provided some interesting intel. It seems whoever this person was retreated to old Redgrave, but it’s been closed off for years.”

“Red Grave?” A thoughtful pause passed. “Isn’t that where you grew up?”

You nodded. “Yes, for a time, my father and I moved there after leaving Vigrid. Old Red Grave is a moniker the section earned after a demon attack. City concern closed it off.”

He cleared his throat. “So, you’re saying the person who took my arm -,”

“Could be in Old Red Grave.” You tapped your chin. “When I was a child, there was a house on the highest hill in town.” You squinted. Memories of a forgotten home had aged to blurriness. “I think going there may provide some answers.”

“I don’t know.”

“What?” You put a hand on your hip. “I’m more than capable of protecting myself, and I am not looking for a fight, just answers.”

Nero exhaled sharply. “Fine, go there, but what about Patty?”

“Patty?” Your eyebrows rose, then fell. “Oh, she’s running the store while I run a few errands. Her birthday’s coming up, and she wants the extra cash.” 

“Heh,” but the concern did not leave. “Whatever that thing was, I want you to be careful, Mom.” Finishing the rest of the sentence was pointless. You knew what he meant, and though exhausted after a long day’s work, you were happy to know he cared. In the midst of your joy, something else punctured your senses, and you paused, five feet away from the main sidewalk. 

A woman screamed. 

“Nero, dear, I’ll call you back.”

“Wait, is something -,”

“Give Kyrie and the children my love.” You made a smooch sound and ended the call right on top of his demand and Nico’s taunt. What’s going - _Aw, baby boy misses his Momma_ \- ended on a short note. Your heels took you quickly down the alley where you made a sharp right. Skidding to a stop, you pressed your back to the wall.

A woman, brown skinned, medium height, scurried to the wall. Her purse was thrown in an inky puddle. Her clothes tattered, dirtied and clinging to her skins. Her chest rose frantically; a bird ready to flee its cage. But she was alone. Had she been alone, the setting would be very different. Your right read three men - tall, short, well built, and each carried a black steel pistol. 

“Please,” a small hand went to the woman’s throat. “Not my necklace. It belonged to my mother.”

It was instinct. A cornered woman, thuggish brutes ready to dispose of her; you knew the ending of this story. They did not leave women like her - beautiful, helpless - alive and alone. It was best to rid themselves of the memory by removing her from this world. 

You moved. You did not carry your beloved Proud Mary, a gift from your beloved uncle upon your arrival to the city, for this exercise. They were not worthy. But then, even had you, you would not have been given the chance. 

One by one the men fell. 

Light blinded her; sharper than the sun and crueler than the moon. It did not disturb her totally, prompting her to close her eyes. Keeping her other senses alert did her well. She raised an arm to shield her eyes and saw them unconcious 

Blackness drew upon a starless night’s envy. Sense preceded touch; the explosion of demonic energy was calculated. A wince clawed into your skin. You side-stepped automatically and knew the attack was not meant for you. 

“Stay away,” the woman screamed. She was the focus of your attention, though briefly. “Please, don’t kill me.” Her sobs were hysterical. She wrapped her arms around herself. A pointless gesture, but she knew that. You sighed.

“What are you,” you said. “Demon? Man?”

He was tall. It was the first thing you noticed about him. His height was not the most striking feature about his person. His black hair, produced by unnatural means you suspected, and his tattooed skin - another unnatural child, rolled into one abomination. But no matter how hard and long you thought, your theories were useless. A demon? No. That was not right. Man? A little but so very far too.

“Hey,” the bird whispered. A familiar? It had to be. “Hey, some broad’s talkin’ to you.”

“I heard,” came his solemn reply. He looked over his shoulder at you. Apathy bejeweled in another emotion you could not describe festered in your eyes. “And what are you? Demon? Woman?” One motion to the ground told you what he meant; you did not have to pursue the move. Although you did not make a pact with a madama, your energy had taken shape, and the demon in your shadow fluttered proudly.

Glaring or a guard would suit this situation appropriately. You grinned instead. “What a relief,” you approached, hips swaying with every step. “I hate having to explain myself. You may have some information.”

His stare narrowed cautiously. “Information,” he said slowly. The bird continued to flap, nervously. 

“Hey, V -,”

He hissed sharply. “Do you not think before you speak?”

“What?” The bird screeched. “It isn’t like she’d believe it was your real name anyways.”

“V?” You tapped your chin. “A little conspicuous, don’t you think? There are much better aliases out there.”

He cocked an annoyed glare at you. “And what of you witch?”

“So, you figured it out?” You tilted your head shortly. “Little play knight?” You jerked your head back to where the woman grasped her necklace and other belongings. “I can’t say you’re evil.”

“What the -,” the bird squawked only to be cut off by the man’s grip around his beak. He shoved him to the wall and stepped one time before stumbling. He was like blades of grass in the wind, bent over by an unseen force. He reached for the wall, gasping, but did not quite make it. Slender fingers slid down the wall along with the flesh they were attached to. His cane tumbled out of his grip, and he slumped on the ground where rats scurried, frightened. 

“How sad,” the bird flapped. “Get up, you lady.”

You approached cautiously. You’d seen what he was capable of and did not have a full assessment of his abilities yet. “I do hate agreeing with dinner,” you sent a warning glare at the creature, “but this isn’t the safest spot to linger.” You looked briefly at the spot where the woman and was relieved to see it empty; a shadow clicked and stumbled the other way, disappearing on the sidewalk. 

“Leave me.”

“Leave you?”

You could have sworn you saw the bird roll its - _what_ \- triple eyes. “He said leave him.” He cleared his throat. “But I’d have to disagree. You’re vulnerable, V.”

“Vulnerable,” you tested the word. You set a hand on your knee, making eye level to his slumped form. “Well, what’s wrong with you? Used too much power?”

A squishy sound emitting from his upper abdomen area answered your question. A beat. A pause. You glanced down as a roar of laughter burst out of your mouth. “Oh,” you wheezed laughed. “I see, well,” you hummed. “That can be solved.”

“Wait, what do you -,”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Ire was an amusement you did not take to heart; his underlying threat irritated you more than concerned you. “You can barely stand. I have food. It sounds like a completely reasonable plan.” You grabbed his thigh and wrapped an arm under his. 

“I am.”

You whistled. “You’re like an empty pillow case,” you lifted him with minimal effort. “A pillowcase full of dead animal bones.” You wobbled briefly but soon regained your footing. “Chicken, can you get his cane?”

“I have a name,” he snapped. 

“And it is?”

He groaned. “Griffon.”

“Okay, Chicken Griffon, get the cane and meet me. My shop is a few blocks away.”

“V, are you really going to take this?”

“Ugh.” He did not sway or kick or tried to pull one of his moves on you; a curious if wise decision. “Let her,” he said weakly. “I am hungry.”

You hummed triumphantly. “To food we go,” you continued. “Are you coming? He’s going to need the cane.”

“Bossy,” the bird grumbled.

But the cane followed.

\--

Embarrassment was an understatement. 

Humiliation was better, but V doubted any word in the English dictionary or any other dictionary could convey the feelings he felt when the woman lifted him in her unusually strong arms.

You lifted him like a child, though she had refrained from cradling him as one. He was propped on her shoulders as she walked idly down the sidewalk; the attention they drew was palpable. Curious stares. Thinly concealed laughter. 

It did not bother him, really. They were irrelevant.

Weak. He was _weak_ , and a feeble witch was able to tote him around as she did her purse. It was an unshaken truth; a truth that rotted to the core. 

Attention was a minor inconvenience. You responded to them as someone who’d weathered hurricanes of scrutiny and ridicule, though you were not the target. You nodded and smiled; lifting your lip a fraction above the tip of your front teeth.

All things come to an end, even this. He saw the building ahead. Some form of cafe; on the front a large sign painted black with silver, glitter welcomed them. _Gates of Paradise._ He watched a couple exit the narrow door. They chatted among themselves, pausing only to gaze at the unusual sight, but the woman dismissed them with a bright smile and a laugh. 

A groan bubbled in his throat.

“Oh, did you enjoy our time,” you prodded.

The woman laughed. “The muffins are to die for and the cappuccinos were delicious, honey.” Her partner agreed solemnly, and she waved them off, thanking them for their contribution. 

He could not see it earlier but saw intricate designs sculpted on the door’s front. A veiled woman wielding an ax raising them against flying beasts. But he scoffed, turning aside.

“I can walk.”

“A fainting man will attract unwanted attention,” you replied, gripping a door handle. “It could affect the reviews.”

“You are not worried about my health -,”

“Patty,” cold air rushed at them. “Patty, I’m back.”

A young woman stood behind the register where a long line of customers waited. Blonde hair was pinned in a high bun, and she wore a black visor and apron. “You’re early,” she said, whirling around to complete another order. “What about your errands?”

“Postponed.” She walked ahead to the back, right in front of view of the customers, who did not appear fazed in the least. “I found a poor, malnourished man on the streets and will be treating him to a meal.”

“Are we still closing for lunch?”

“As the law requires,” you replied, crossing through another hallway. “Use that time to prepare for your final exams. Proctor Theodosia will not wait for you tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah, and the man -,”

"Of little consequences,” she interjected. “I’ll be down shortly.”

You disappeared down another hallway. V stayed quiet, noticing the oblivious stares on the customers’ faces, as if they did not see the man the woman was hoisting on his shoulders.

“Are they -,”

“They’re used to this,” you answered. “Hello, George.”

“Hello,” an elderly man waved back. “Lovely weather we’re having.”

“Indeed, Patty, make sure he gets an extra for the missus.”

And then you went down a black hallway.

\--

At last, you released him in your apartment, though loft was more accurate. You repurposed the bottom floor as a cafe, now popular among the elderly and college aged.

“I need my cane.”

You pointed to the window, walking ahead. “A smart bird follows,” you said, opening a window and stepping back as the avian beast swept into your living room. He dropped on the arm of your couch, leaving the cane upright.

“You walk fast, lady.”

“Thank you,” you motioned to the sofa. “If you can make it there, you are allowed to rest. I have some leftovers in the refrigerator.”

A more anxious woman (or person) would stick to caution. You dropped your purse to the side and went to the refrigerator. You’d prepared _spaghetti alla puttanesca_ for the work week, dividing the leftovers in containers. Grabbing one, you popped it open, placed it in an oven pot and set it for a mild warming. 

“You like pasta?” 

You saw him near the sofa, gripping his cane. His stare swayed along the walls, and soon, so did his cane. The soft tap, tap as he crossed the floors danced in your ears. Griffon perched on a chair. 

“I will eat what is available,” he said, looking back at you. 

You shrugged. “Great.” It didn’t take the food long to warm, and you returned, crossing to the table behind the sofa. Your apartment was spacious, but there weren’t many rooms, not that you needed them, as you now lived alone.

He moved quietly, or as quietly as his cane would allow. Rather than open your good wine and vodka, you settled for a glass of water, setting the plate and glass on the table. He nodded his thanks, slumped in the chair and watched with hard, wary eyes as you took a seat across the table. 

“Have you made it a practice to pick strangers off the street?”

You hummed. “Only when they’re interesting.” You clasped one of your thick braids, no parted in three. Two draped over your shoulders as the other fell to the end of your spine. “And you are,” you leaned forward, wrist tucked under your chin, “very interesting. What are you looking for?”

He said nothing, spinning pasta into his fork. His brow needled together. Less salt. But he refrained from offending his host. 

“I am looking for,” his eye caught sight of the pictures along the wall, and he turned. Three moderately sized framed photographs were pinned to the wall. A dark skinned man smiled into the face of a child he held in his arms; she was no older than seven years old. His dark hair was plaited in a braid that crossed over his right shoulder. Dressed in sharp, white clothes, outlined in violet and gold, he contrasted the girl's dark green dress and red ribboned, plaited hair. Another showed the same girl, only older, standing in between a woman and man. The woman was covered in black clothing that obscured the lower half of her face, and the man, her opposite, stood on the right draped in pure whites outlined in gold. She stood with a cheeky, proud grin on her face as each of their hands cupped her in gentle embrace. 

Others showed similar women dressed in flowing clothes; one woman clad in red from her lips to her heels and the other more black and red trimmed. 

But it was the far right photograph that caught his attention. He squinted at its contents.

“Is there something wrong?"

“Yeah, V,” Griffon flapped to the empty chair to the left. “And uh, are you gonna eat that?”

V glared at the bird. “You do not need to eat.”

“I have extras.” 

“At least someone has manners,” the bird griped. “Thanks, lady.”

You sighed but humored the bird. He pecked at the noodles, grasping them with enough tenderness not to break them. V did not let go of the photo. You sat at the table, arms crossed, inquisitive. 

“Uh...is there something that interests you,” you followed his trail. You leaned forward. “Oh? That one?”

“That boy,” he whispered.

“Nero?” You smiled. “Yes, my Nero. My son.”

“Your son?” He looked briefly at you.

You smirked, unfazed. “Oh yes, yes, we often get strange looks when we go out together,” you leaned back, tossing a braid cockily. “All for my girlish looks and figure.”

“Yes,” he replied warily. 

“His wife, Kyrie. Children, that’s Julio in the middle,” you pointed, fingers crossed. But as you thought, your smile waned. Your stare hardened. “He was attacked a few weeks ago. He lost an arm.”

He was nonplussed. “Unfortunate,” he leaned to the plate. “Do you know who is responsible?”

“You don’t fit the description,” you replied, reaching for your phone. “Nero said he was covered in old rags.”

“Hm.” His squint turned to a tight glare. A knowing glare. He set his fork down. “And if I tell you what you need to know?”

“Do you have a name?”

“You said you were going to Old Redgrave.”

Knowing a diversion when you heard one, you focused on what he didn't say. “How did you,” you started, then paused as you leered at Griffon eating his meal. “I see.”

V chuckled. “Be grateful our paths crossed when they did,” he said. His hooded eyelids told a story you could not begin to comprehend, and so, you focused on his words. “The one responsible for your son’s disfigurement plans there.”

Your throat throbbed as you pushed down your anger. “A name?”

“Urizen.”

“Urizen?” You tested the name on your tongue and shook your head. You had done your fair share of research in the seven hells. It was a requirement of all witches. Urizen did not show up, and your connection was strong enough to sense such a demonic presence. You shivered. “Urizen, no, he must be…,” irrelevant, you pushed back your doubts. “How do we stop him?”

“We can’t.”

You stood shakily. “We can’t,” you scoffed. You started to pace, chewing on your cheek. You paused, gripping the end of your chair. Your tongue protruded in your cheek, and you inhaled deeply. “You know about him, don’t you?”

“Honestly, he wasn’t my first choice.”

“Whoever you are, V,” you emphasized, “he is our best shot.”

“Can you get in contact with him?”

Your nostrils flared. “I can try,” you confessed. “I’d have to call his middle man, hopefully.” As your thoughts ran, your phone started to ring. With a sigh, “Yes, Patty?” You clicked your tongue. “Okay, okay, calm down. Where is Veronica?” You sighed. “Of course she’s on break. Alright, I’m on my way.” You slipped your phone in your pocket and stared at your new guests.

“Busy?”

“Yes, chicken, very.” Leaving a stranger in your home, surrounded by your valuables and other ancient possessions, was not a smart thing to do. “Listen, you can stay here for now. I’ll contact the middleman. Just stay put, and I don’t think I have to tell you that, do I?”

“We promise,” Griffon said. “We won’t touch anything.”

You stared V, not entirely expecting a response but expectant all the same. He blinked blankly at you and turned towards the wall photographs. “I will refrain from disturbing the sanctity of your home,” he said in a clear, tight tone. 

Your stare tightened, suspicious, and suddenly, without warning, smoothed into a pleasant neutral expression. No signs of conflict or wariness were present. “Okay,” you un-squint your eyes as you opened the door. “It shouldn’t take me long. Make yourself at home.” But not too at home...lingered silently but a quiet understanding was an understanding. You closed the door, heels clicking loudly until silenced. 

Never the one to keep his beak shut for one, Griffon ruffled his feathers. “Can’t say it could’ve gone worse,” he mocked. “Just your luck to walk straight into the house of the man whose arm you ripped off.”

V did not rise to the bait, except for a sharp glare Griffon only chuckled at. Gaze scoping the man’s face he identified several familiar features; frost white hair, crystal blue eyes but warmer, softer than the ones reflected in his former reflection.

“Impulsive as always, Dante,” V mumbled, shaking his head in disappointment and expectation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am debating how far I am going to go with...physical interactions, since I am more of a slow burn, but the intention was always to test my smut capabilities. It doesn't make sense for them to get down now, but they don't have much of a reason not to get down. V's getting used to being human again.
> 
> Next chapter Reader meets up with some old friends.


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to update my rating now.
> 
> Apologies for my absence. I started on the chapter. Got tired. Continued. Got tired. Continued and finished. Realized I missed some major elements that needed to be included. 
> 
> Thank you for your patience.

V entered the upper apartment through the back door. Griffith was perched on the living room window; three eyed socket staring intently at the guest seated at the witch’s kitchen table.

Having extended their stay, you and Griffith sought the broker as planned. Morrison was   
an agreeable man and more than forthcoming at the right price. As Red Grave’s criminal activity was palpable, neither V or Griffith encountered any trouble acquiring the right amount of money to earn the old man’s confidence.

Acquiring Dante’s assistance wasn’t nearly as difficult as anticipated.

But you were not done, not by a long shot, and so, when your guests returned from their meeting with Morrison, you did not sway in your discussion.

Two others were seated comfortably in your apartment. A short, round man wearing a white fedora and elaborate business suit with an ankle length coat lounged on the sofa. A second, taller and slimmer man sat in one of the chairs; hair pinned in a short ponytail at the top of his head. 

Both men paused at the sound of the door opening. The short man’s dark sunglasses peered at V suspiciously, though he did nothing else, burying his hand in a bowl of chips. “The fuck is going on now,” he grumbled. “You’ve got freaks renting?”

“Enzo,” you chided softly, “what have we discussed about talking to other people?”

The man snorted.

“Um, do you want us to go,” the taller man asked. “We can if you need?”

You laughed. “Oh, Luka,” you patted his knee. “Absolutely not,” your laughter died instantly. “This information will be useful to us, and I think V would be most interested in hearing this.”

V hobbled carefully across the floor, eyes digging into the men’s heads. “Something interesting,” he said in a crisp, dry tone. “I wonder what it is.” He creaked onto one of the elevated kitchen stools; unimpressed with their bait, he motioned for them to proceed.

Luka cleared his throat; a thin line of annoyance quirked in his right eyebrow. “Right,” he drawled, grabbing photos and papers. “To start off, this wasn’t easy to find,” he grinned at you. “Enzo scoped deep underground.”

“And ya’ think it was peachy, don’t cha?”

“No one said that, Enzo,” you replied.

“Well, it wasn’t.’ He huffed indignantly. Reclined in the chair, he crossed his hefty arms over his round stomach, expertly concealed under his coat. “I had so much shit to look into, but there was so much shit your witchy bosses didn’t want anyone to know.”

You agreed, glaring at his sausage finger pointed at you. “I am aware,” you said, pushing said finger away with your wrist. “Why do you think I hired you?”

Annoyed at being interrupted, Luka pushed onward. “Enough,” he stressed, quietly. “We were able to find out some information about the location you sent us.”

“Oh?”

His outstretched hand offered several documents; on the top was a photograph. A quizzical expression, one of doubt and disbelief, clouded your face. “My,” you picked up the photograph gingerly, afraid that its wilted, faded form would disintegrate right in your hand. “Where did you find this?”

“Red Grave Public Library.” He answered plainly, looking a little triumphant at his found. “It was in the Founders’ section. These women were the last known descendants of Geneva Redgrave, one of the city’s founders.”

Your knowing look did not go ignored. He returned it fully and puffed his cheeks, revealing some embarrassment. “Father and I worked on some genealogy,” he admitted. “Geneva was one of the oldest known witches; renowned for her wisdom and generosity, Red Grave City was built as a fortress to defend against demons and angels alike.”

“Which sounds funny to me,” Enzo cackled. “You witches make pacts with demons, but demons keep coming after humans.”

You grinned, rueful. “No demon is the same,” you explained. “The demons known to attack and murder are under Mundus’ domain. The demons we witches seek are different.” Your tongue curled as you searched for the right explanation. “Hell is a multi-layered place. Inferno is the source where our contracts exist, ruled by the ever powerful Sheba,” you smiled thinly. “She and Mundus are rumored to have a," you paused, gesturing indifferently, "a tumultuous relationship. Her queens have sworn allegiance to him, and his lords have sworn allegiance to her. Neither can control what the other chooses to do with humanity."

Luka paled, something cold and hard had settled on his stomach. “And Red Grave?”

“I don’t know what happened,” although there were rumors too. “A demon attack more than thirty years ago infuriated the Elder, and she cut funding to the Red Grave covenant.” You shrugged. “I thought she was embarrassed at our failure to anticipate the attack, but now, I’m not so sure.”

“No one was interested in it?”

“No, not until now.”

Your brow arched. “Until now,” you repeated. “In the past fifteen years, she approved renovations and some funding to the covenant.” For these reasons, instead of going all the way to Vigrid for her training and subsequent sacred robes, Patty was allowed to train in the nearby city of Red Grave City. “Cyril doesn't have a covenant.”

“You think there’s a reason for that,” Luka asked in a way suggesting he’d already started the search for that answer. “It's right between Fortuna and Red Grave.”

“Would you believe me if I said I used to think her reasons for doing anything were out of pettiness,” you asked.

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “I would.” He cleared his throat. “But...I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves. We were able to find a lot of information on Red Grave City, but nothing on Urizen, just old photos of the Redgrave family.”

At last, you devoured the history contained in the photographs. _The Umbran Elder and her immediate family..._ wait, was this sacrilegious? A ridiculous notion, you couldn't help feeling that you'd stumbled upon something preciously intimate. Your toes wanted to curl inside your boots, and you wanted to thrust the photos back into Luka's chest. You'd encroached onto unmarked territory; this world was a world the Elder had never wanted anyone to seek or discover. Thanks to Enzo and Luka, they'd accomplished both, leaving the evidence with you.

But despite your misgivings, you continued to feast.

Colors were somewhat watered down, thinned but present; you identified multiple blacks, golds, violets, reds and blues curled around the woman’s curves. 

Their faces carried their genes so finely, so tenderly it was impossible to deny their blood relations; some may have pushed further that they were twins, albeit fraternal rather than identical.

The right sister’s, the elder, Luka identified, bone structure was angular and sharp; knowing this pointed look of her face, had smiled softly into the camera to ease the harshness. Her younger sister, Luke tapped above her head, was far softer, visually with a heart shaped face and full cheeks clinging to baby fat. Where her sister’s smile eased and comforted, there was something firmer if not harsher about this smile.

In the middle Adam Redgrave stood proudly beside his reddish-blonde wife. His daughter’s shared his pale, lemony blonde hair. He did not smile, leaving it to a crinkle under his monocled eye to suggest his joy for this portrait. The girls were no older than sixteen, on the cusp of womanhood. Their naked shoulders proved they hadn't earned their sacred robes yet or had taken the vows.

“Trish,” you murmured, stare squaring as you admitted your mistake. _Trish_...was not appropriate for this young woman. Her soft hair and softer eyes were directed to her less gentle sister. You recognize the shape of the face, though the lower half of her face was consistently covered behind dark violet cloth, and her hair was pinned in a high, braided bun, covered under a simple hat.

Watches fastened above their chests were like their similarities, similar but not identical, and you noticed the same watch on their mother. “Umbran watch,” you squinted. “Umbran witches, but their father,” you inhaled.

“Was given to the Lumen Sages as a child,” Enzo interjected crudely. “Seems like witches don’t like boys.”

“Mummy and Father Baldur broke the sacred pact. As the world did not end, despite our numbers taking a hit, an official exchange was made to increase our numbers.” It wasn't a complicated process. Boys born to witches were given to sages to rear, with some developing strengths of their own to aid their brethren. Girls born to sages were given to the witches for the same purposes. “This Lumen sage,” you tapped. “Adam Redgrave?"

"Yes," Luka said. "He was the Lumen Elder after Baldur's abdication. He died fifty years ago."

You smirked. "How poetic," you teased. "A Lumen sage and his Umbra acolyte wife produced two full fledged witches, Eva and Lilith."

Ceramic made contact with a hardwood floor. Splitting in numerous, smaller pieces, the remains spread across the floor right as their three heads turned towards the source. V was seated on the chair, fist clenched below his chin. He stared, not in shock, but anticipation at the destroyed bowl that you’d placed on the center of your kitchen counter. Fake fruit rolled near his feet guiltily, and he stared, blankly, a disconnection of the real and now.

Your concern was not for the shattered bowl. A disappointment, yes, but your line of vision had fallen onto the dark glare that smoldered in his gaze. Enzo and Luka exclaimed at the noise, cringed at the mess on the floor, and you were lost in that momentary remiss. 

A directionless glare aimed for a target that did not exist. He never felt their stares, the concern wavering between annoyance and fear; before his mind could process their inquisitiveness, a shrill squawk flapped towards an open window.

“Alright, we’ve got a meeting.”

Luka restrained the surprise in his position but startled, jumping in his seat. Enzo did not hold himself to the same caliber and let a wave of terror wash over him as he fell back in the chair; the chair, not rooted to the floor, fell back comically. The round man toppled like a boulder down, swearing and cursing all the way down. 

“What kind of fucking,” spittle dressed around his mouth. He scrambled onto his feet, clutching his cigar that he thrust at the bird. “What the hell is that thing.” He tried to string the sentence out in one go but sputtered the entire way like a broken train on the railroad track. “What did I say about weird shit? I left Dante for this, and I can leave you too!”

“Enzo,” you said in a lightly chiding tone. You crossed around the table and offered Griffin your arm. He glared at you, suspiciously, but did not reject you. His talons curled around your arm, and you chuckled, arrogance dripping. “Griffin is a good boy. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Sure,” he chuckled, leaning into your touch as you pet his head. He remained erect, defiant at your touch while refusing to pull or fly away. “I’d definitely hurt the rat its clinging to though.”

Amused by his counter, “I know you would. So you’ve gotten the file details with the broker?” He nodded, then noticed the two other figures in the room. “And these are?”

“Friends,” you answered. “Searching for information.” You raised your hand and drew a circle where the splinted remains of your ceramic bowl rattled. A violet circle appeared underneath the carnage, and with speed that was too fine for any of them to process, the bowl had regained its original shape, placed on its centerpiece position on the counter.

Griffin passed a speculative stare to V, who did not respond and merely returned to his seat with a disgruntled air joining his silence. You chose to dismiss this scene for the moment, focusing your attention and energy on your guests.

“Enzo, Luka, this information is invaluable.” It was, in more ways than you could have anticipated. How strange it was to stare at the Elder’s uncovered face - tender, soft you’d dare to muse. What did it mean? How did this tie to the demon who had claimed your son’s arm? “I prefer to keep this from Cereza and Jeanne. I don't want to worry Mummy and Father Baldur."

Enzo sniffed with disgust and annoyance. “And you think we’re talking to them,” he bounced back, more irritated than ever.

“Yes, yes, I do,” you said quietly. “And besides, it is more profitable than working for Dante, isn’t it?”

He grumbled halfheartedly, arms crossed. Although they had severed their professional relationship more than a decade ago, you sensed their personal relationship survived.

Luka cleared his throat. “Bayonetta said the Umbra witches are interested in this Urizen,” he cast a wary glance at V. “For whatever reason, no one can trace his supernatural presence. The Elder is not pleased.”

“Is that really a surprise?” Your smile turned crooked. “Honestly, it furthers the truth of the clans lacking the omnipotence they desire.” 

After several more drinks and payment, Enzo and Luka parted, leaving you to settle matters you did not discuss in front of them. Your turned on your heel to the man responsible for this and smirked; Griffin perched on one of the chairs, uneasy gaze flip flopping from one side to the other.

“Anything?”

He smirked, an odd shape on his grayish skin. “No,” you said. “When will we meet the middleman?”

You motioned to Griffon, eager to fill the void with his witty banter. “The old man requires money upfront,” his neck twisted, unusually birdlike. He saw your inquiry coming more than five miles away and added quickly, “We’ve got it covered, Legs.”

“Legs?” Your brow arched, amused. You shrugged calmly, having assumed the nickname with pride. “As long you’re not robbing innocent people,” which you knew they weren’t. Their exploits called to the ever rising criminal population of Red Grave City. “I do recommend a shower before meeting Morrison tomorrow. He may be used to the degenerates of society, but a good first impression sets the mood. He is the key to Dante.”

As you walked to your bedroom, exhausted and in need of rest, the deep curve of V’s lips twitched, barely noticeable under the weak light. You had no intention of pressing, of pushing to his truth, but then sound toppled out of his mouth. You paused, resting a hand on the corner, and stared back at him, patient for the question you had waited for the moment you sensed him on your block.

He swallowed, unblinking. “This woman,” he paused, desperation sewn in his complexion, not needle points ready to stitch into his skin. “Eva Redgrave, what do you know of her?”

You leaned on the corner, tucking its piece under your chin as you dissected your potential response. Eva - as she was known to you and countless novices, was a figure for education during your acolyte and apprentice years. Consequently, you had not known her full name, and the scrolls you were required to read included a crude, vague visual likeness, a stark contrast to the vivid photograph now clenched in your right hand. 

You never told Dante. You didn’t there was a reason to, and something fluttered in your stomach, anxiously. Your relationship with the legendary devil-hunter was friendly - not a companionship comparable to his with Trish and Mary and Lucia - but friendly, someone you could trust and depend on when things got tough. Had you known then what you knew now, would you? Would you have kept your secrets as you did with Nero.

 _Nero_...this, in the period of your many confessions, shared this with him, but as a history lesson, educating him on some of the things you had learned. “She made what we witches call the Bracelet of Time.” You presented your wrist and grinned thinly. “It allows the user to manipulate time at their will.”

His lips parted weakly, a small fraction as a breath exited. His glare tightened, nodding in a tight way that suggested his curiosity was not sated.“And?” He leaned onto his cane and grimaced. “What else?”

Your tongue curled, and your eyes rolled to the top of your head in thought. “What our teachers told us was that she was a truly extraordinary witch. She entered a contract with a legendary dark knight, together fighting the forces of Inferno.” A tightness you had felt only once before knitted on the inside of your intestines as minuscule, chopped pieces tried to forge an incomplete picture. Licking your upper lip, you looked down at your feet and shook your head, ashamed. “It seems to make more sense in context, knowing what I know now.”

“Describe it,” he said in what you would call a harsh whisper. “I want to know what it looks like.”

A little confused but more interested in his reasons, you described the relic that had not been seen in decades. The more you described, the harsher his expression became; the transformation happened gradually, not instantaneous. His grayish skin tightened, and beads of sweat pinched each nerve end. He did not move forward or backward; Griffon remained silent, triple sight widening in surprise then deflating in what you presumed was resignation. An almost, “Of course,” response he decided was best to keep quiet on.

Finished, you waited for something, though with V it was hard to visualize what was going to come next. He leaned on his heels, applying more pressure on his cane than necessary; his jawline worked to the point you could feel teeth grinding on top of each other. Griffin stayed near but distant, as if reading his master’s mind as he processed the information you had, obliviously in a manner of speaking, given him. 

“Did I say something wrong?” Suddenly, the need to comfort him struck you down. It was a punch to the gut, as if you dragged a kitten onto the street below and proceeded to bludgeon without abandon. He conveyed no grief on his expression; the only indication of emotion was the distinct bird structure his brow fell into. “V, I’m…,” you trailed off, aimless. What could you say? An apology wasn’t appropriate. 

“I must sleep,” he cut sharply, more than he intended. “Tomorrow we will speak with this middleman.” He wobbled to the couch where he’d spent the past several nights, closer to two weeks than you realized. “Will we have to acquire tickets for the train?”

You studied in a manner unlike the previous times, dismissing the physical attributes and centering solely on the spiritual. It was an unwelcome act to perform, especially when he was not certain you were doing it; you reassured yourself it was not as invasive as you believed. Just curling around the aura radiating off his skin; a feature of this pure blue energy was degraded, perhaps a sign of his body’s deterioration he had not informed you. Defiant yet undeniably fragile, he was someone you wanted to protect and smack upside the head at the same time. 

The sound of his sharp tone returned you to the present, and you nodded, albeit stiffly. “Yes,” you answered. “I purchased them when Morrison confirmed the meeting. We’ll leave tomorrow, and see what happens from there.” 

His pinched stare read you. Obviously, you possessed an item, an ounce of knowledge he wanted to possess, but he could not place what or where it was. “Good,” he dismissed. “I will rest.”

Rest sounded so weary and wrong for him, especially when you knew rest was a lie, a silly half-truth used to keep you ignorant of his business. Beyond the scope of Urizen, your interest in him was minimal, or that’s what you told yourself, repeating in your head like a hammer on top of a nail. But this was not the time to think about it. Your apartment, your home was not the place to deliberate over his penetrating stare, stripping you bare and hounding you for secrets you didn’t even know you had.

“Good night,” you said, simply. “Cyril awaits us first thing in the morning."

\--

Eva…thick, smooth blond hair curled in ringlets past her shoulders and watery green, blue eyes bled into memory; memory he had, or rather he had tried to suppress for more than three decades. ...Was a witch?

Spread across the sofa, feet crossed where the left heel rested atop the right foot, V stared at the ceiling, collecting thoughts. Skeletal fingers were entwined atop his stomach.

“A witch,” Griffon whispered, contemplatively. “Hard to believe when you look back on it.” He did not look at him. His head reflected at the window, pointed and sharp. “Are you sure Legs got it right? And this Elder?”

“Their credibility is sound,” or Enzo’s was. He recalled the man in the vague almost a lifetime ago sort of way. His dark shades and style of dress was not easily forgotten. But a deeper reason existed too. V wanted this truth. He wanted this to be true, a long awaited truth about the former Ms. Eva Redgrave. “I believe them,” he spoke quietly, aware another slept only a room away. “I wonder what they know?’

With his newfound information came an emotion he was well equipped to accept, frustration. Dante’s tendency of flooding his thoughts returned now, despite his active attempts at suppressing that part of his soul. Dante loved his mother with an equal passion on the cusp of worship, which V understood was not wholly unfounded for a child who had lost his mother at an impressionable age. He clenched his fist; nails buried into his palm. 

What would Vergil think?

His drive...his motivation...was tied to his father’s power. His formidable, fear inducing father, but Sparda had not been that way when he was a child. Memories had dimmed, yes, but were not purged. V recalled an old man, barrel-chested, with thin, long hair groomed in a classical manner modernity found humorous.

How did one scale a witch’s and demon’s power? Where do you compare? From what you told him, Eva’s powers were connected to Sparda, but as he aged, as his human form withered, no. V turned suddenly on the side. He couldn’t afford to think such thoughts; his task required focus and certainty. What happened in the past...between Sparda and Eva...was now pointless, irrelevant.

“I thought it was weird you didn’t ask for a blanket.”

There you were, on the end of the sofa, sitting in front of his feet. In the dark room, the only source of light was the moon’s light spilling through the window. Your hair was pinned and wrapped in a silk scarf; you wore a simple shirt and simple shorts. As white kissed your dark skin, you seemed to glow, heavenly; naturally, you were unaware of this. 

“How long were you sitting there,” he hissed, eyes squinting.

“Just now.” You smiled thinly. “I couldn’t sleep. I think I’m anxious about this trip to Cyril. Morrison can be tough to convince.”

“As long as I have the money -,”

“What are you,” you interjected. You were not harsh or cold or mean, just rude in a childish way. You didn’t flush with embarrassment. “I mean, you asked me the same thing.”

V glared at you, weighing his response. “You didn’t answer me.”

Your smirk told him what you wanted him to know. “You already know what I am,” and you spun around, reclining back on the end near his feet where he sat up, confused. Arms folded under your head, you fixed him in his spot. “I am a witch. A formidable witch but not formidable enough to tackle this demon who harmed my son.”

“This isn’t about Nero.”

“No,” you answered honestly, without flinching. “Not this. This isn’t about Nero.” You nudge your knee to his side, suggestively. “What are you?”

He rested a hand on your exposed thigh, and chanced a look at your face. Unreadable, stubbornly so, as was his.

"Is this," emphasis was applied to each word, "a transaction?"

"You don't want to. We don't have to."

He squeezed tightly, and turning his hand over, raked the back of his nails gently up to where your right butt cheek waited. It was the invisible border, the crease separating ass from thigh, and he flicked over it, interested. 

"Griffon."  
  
"Yeah?"

V didn't face his avian familiar. "Leave."

"Are you fucking -,"  
  
"Leave, Chicken," you reaffirmed. "And don't leave shit on my bed."

 _What was he..._ a good question, a practical question, and V didn't have a practical answer. He wasn't a man or half a man; such information wasn't yours to claim, yet, but as long as everything went as planned, you'd discover the truth. But the reasons for this, for what he was doing now - well, the practical inquiry also deserved a less than practical answer. Your definitive boldness irritated him. He preferred not to admit this; your consistent forwardness annoyed, frustrated him but made for engaging bed-mates. A flicker of a lesson tumbled to current memory and was soon lost; it was a non-issue. Confident? Yes, you were, and yet, you were not arrogant. As his skeletal, death cold fingers roamed across your skin, making your stomach flutter and breath hitch, he reminded himself of this.

Your reasons for intruding on this solitude after more than two weeks of resigning yourself to your bedroom had not gone unrewarded or unnoticed; he glanced down at your slightly parted legs, your wide, thick thighs waiting underneath. He reached to the invisible border separating ass from thigh, and you shifted to the left, letting him feel what he hadn't dare touch in public presence.

You offered your hand. 

He offered his neck.

As your grip curled around his neck, pulling him down, down, neither of you gave it much thought as to what the morning held for you. The night was long and ready, and you were ready to spend some frustration on victims neither human or demonic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Nero ain't gonna like this when he finds out. I don't think Reader's gonna like it either.
> 
> Bayonetta's Enzo was originally Dante's middleman before Morrison. For whatever reason, they broke up, but I like to think Enzo was tired of the demons. He quits. He joins up with Bayonetta, thinking he's getting a sweet deal, and well, you know. 
> 
> I forgot Luka's last name is Redgrave. His father's name is Antonio Redgrave. Dante's alias is Tony Redgrave. Tony is nickname for names like Anthony and Antonio. Morrison states Dante used the alias to honor a journalist/reporter he respected.. Using Redgrave as Eva's last name means Luka and Dante (and Vergil) are distantly related to each other. When I started this story, I wanted to give something about Eva's backstory, and seeing we aren't getting sisters any time soon...why not?
> 
> Next chapter, we're moving on to the M-rated material. Woo-hoo! 
> 
> All feedback is appreciated! (Thank you for your patience.)


End file.
